I stutter, words burn,
Lipton shades drench our desk,
I turn your world like a dollar,
But you were already rolled out

You might play my smile like a violin,
Those feline eyes, in there wounded design,
It is fur that can’t trim,
Shedding ****** like ashes,
Petting you, as the comforters descending,

Blood is a blooming bass,
Whispering,
“You fit in my vase,
The sun you may taste”