If you were a coloring book,
I would be mad,
That after opening the cover,
There's no spaces left for me to color.

If you were water,
I would freeze you,
Immobile,
And gently stroke my fingers across your surface.

If you were wooden,
You'd be the finest sculpture,
That I would burn with every touch in every crease,
And leave ashen.

If you were an egg,
I'd take the utmost care to not drop you,
And the only place I would break your shell,
Is at the bottom where I'd fit perfectly.

If you were a string,
I'd tie you up tightly around me,
So that you could never leave me,
And I could always feel you on my skin.

If you were lava,
I would gladly burn off my flesh,
And I wouldn't hesitate to go inside you,
Because I'm used to feeling you down to my bones.

An eggzample of eggzactly
What is meant by "eggcentricity"
Is dancing round an egg on the ground
And shouting "O Felicity".

You broke me open like an egg
Ate my affections for breakfast
Threw the shell in the trash
No more use to you anymore

The best way to get the broken pieces of an egg out of your omelette
Is using half the shell to pick it up while it's still raw

Maybe you're the best qualified to pick up your own broken pieces

We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end.

On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog.

We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.