these are gems your tongue kissed in a fit of pink. your luminous dark, weaving sharp cotton to photons as swiftly as first love. you are remarkable. so mark. these are the feathers of dead wings, staring at the sun through the ashes of Icarus unharmed.
a blindfold of petulance between the deep and the blue aloft.
this is the air that we breathe, you and i the construct, struck dumb by the fierce knowing of a soul the ponderous gaiety of lithe thoughts that shimmer-***** in the bleak fears just cause.