They are

                monotony.

Pulchritudinous

               ­               aesthetics,

Alleviation

                      to­

                             seclusion.

Do you not feel the heat – my wrist on yours
burn tales more rich than ours on nights more dark
than souls too tense to feel the eyes of God
draw shame on backs of necks so close?

Or is it

                                                             ­                                                                 ­        just me?

Conjuring

                    fraudulence

Accrediting

   ­                    ludicrous

                                          buoyancy

I know its there I know the life that flows
through limbs of mine can move through cloth to touch
the skin of yours I hear your eyes I see your voice
I breath you in why else are we so close?

And

          innocent

And

            serene

And

  ­          happy




And

                                        ­                                                                 ­                                    secluded.




How can you sit not feel those things I feel
not think those thoughts I think not see your wrist
sink in to flesh as soft and pink as lips
I long to taste? We are al-ways al-ways
al-ways al-ways al-ways al-ways

so close...



They are

                 tolerable

Doused

               ardor

                            maybe.

Benumbed

            ­           incandescence

                                                  ­  maybe.

But still

               They are
                                                             ­                                                                 ­                             here.