Hands bloodstained, that's what I get for touching sunsets.
"Too fond of flames" but you're so addictive.
Sunlight emits from your every crevice and pour
and your touch leaves tree rings on my skin,
studying it is like dendrochronology, so intricate.

Ivory and pale as if oblivious to the sun within you,
yet it shone so bright from within.
Our body's fit together like one big cliché of a puzzle
and we made this bed a home.

Then I realized your flame diminished for me over time.
My fingers that ran over you came up black.
That's what happens when you touch ash
and now your touch leaves a mere fog on my skin,
I guess that's what happens when we burn fast and bright.

Wrap my slithering soul in layers of wanton and historical bark, where dendrochronology branches her gorgeously captivating system of vascular cambium and seals me within the vice of her vengeful caress.
History has truly borne witness to the brigand of robbers who interfered with travellers in the depths of the forest of aristocratic whoredom.
I am buried underneath chords of feminine expression, where the synthesis of bass, melody and harmony unite into an unspeakable realm which cannot be interrupted by parallel expressions of sterility.
Your carriage awaits, Madame.