born from a splitting ache in the back-left of my head like a drill bit whirring in an empty paint can.
i'd give you pearls for hands my love, ever-winter washing over our foaming cerulean eyescapes.
inside your drums I hear a pulse that cries for hips and thorns entangled under your navel.
one more summer breath from lung to lung exchanged under moonlight for the promise of elevation. you are not who you say you are my dear - you are a future memory stalking sweetly today under the guise of novel pleasure , but time will reveal your skin to me under the electric lavender of my eyelids.
you are wood grain and strata - born too, it seems, from a splitting.