red ink and red lipstick there is nothing so red and gruesome than a fireheart, a bleeding heart, striking matches and flickering on cold white sheets and with your skin white as poetry (T. S. Eliot's sighs, Bukowski's love bites, a blush red as Plath) and your bed is neatly made, and my sheets are a field of unmown lilies and the creases are pressed out, changed, scarlet lipstick streaks and crimson ink washed away.
I swore-- like a sailor who's lost her heart to the waves-- you could point to your ghosts and I would burn them with all of my fierce and my fury and all the fire that I had.
I wish I was your sister that no name nor space could come between our fingertips, our morbidezza fingertips like Mandarin porcelain and the space between our fingertips is the space between heaven and earth.