his fluid being mimics that of cigarettes; death chopped up and rolled into a curious little thing
i could hold him in my hands but that is a mere only; his wonderment insufficient my soul too mammoth
my lips crave the grim reaper's touch my skin detests the flawlessness of staged idiosyncrasy this world has seen enough of those you yell misanthrope, but you do not understand
i seek the intertwining of precariousity intimacy marked by fluttering thumbs tracing specks of golden on his cheeks
galaxies splashed across the bridge of his nose he is everything i yearn yet; everything i cannot be he is my exotic morns and my sunday siesta fingertips outline connect-the-dot maps i could only ever get lost in
freckles.
like a lacklustre silence the end of sentences pinpointing areas chipped fingernails have lusted to memorise