we were speeding on 'e' in dastardly overused lexemes i used to forget, ending peachy words with 'jolie' (or 'moche').
write: meta-cognition.
he writes lines and chisels octaves onto my skin, dough, bones and lacquers, he says they are the only places where mad love-notes would fit without the keys.
the bed has turned bipolar, diagnosed with isochronous stability. we sleep in half-cut apples held up by sombre scissors.
he imbibes couplets from strophe tea-cups, he leaves me hungover in stanza trains.
he says that i am the last pen he has and if i were to stop dreaming, the poet would be dead.*