dust fingertips, fairy wings, the tears of heathens
made of these, sweet dreams are

lapping at sickly skin with remorse

an undercurrent of lighting hits the skin
hair on end and your face turns red
you want to try, but you're too shy
it's a necessity to be broken sometimes

but why do I want to cry? If my problems have  been resolved
is this just a clean slate for more problems
please don't let it be

I adore every inch of your skin but dare not to touch it
I am afraid