the ghosts around your moist lips clipping the sweet drench of our limp wish.... the spectral harlots of our far lit lamps and the damp parlors of our damaged camps pitched. the pit of our peaches, fussing the cuff of our sap. the honey bonds - of our wayward damp runes... that we caste to undo any telling of our demise, to save our precious myth. to keep our ruse amused...
my darling... goodnight... though nothing is good and we have only the night.... goodnight.
i will trouble you no more but labor to keep your sweet grief mine. to contend with your unending medallions of perfect regret, to pass your palm with silver drek, the likes of which your liking, may learn to kiss with two lips at dead stop.
if this is the end tremble and be trembling. our disassembling locks our open door and nothing more than vanishing remains, where our appearance mocks the same.
goodnight... though nothing is good, and the light is a darkness, a trump of knives and a far thing, up too close to save a prayer for the plight of fools and just too far to pry our hands from live grenades...