The cleave of your thigh is perfumed by something I am allergic to.
A large hit to my solar plexus for going down on you!

Custard-blonde tendrils dangle before me
Like a field of yaks, grazing tentatively upon your ****** back.
Lately they have been tumbling out spectacularly in clumps of fibre,
Forming barley or shellac-colored runes in the shower.

While cleaning the drain, mistakenly I
Touched a pale Daddy-long-legs that was crushed into a polka dot,
And let out a deafening scream
For you to stomp on its itsy-bitsy corpse till your footsoles wore brick red fishnets.
Then, left with only seven legs to lift its ***, it’d gone down like a ******.

After gazing into one’s lashless mung bean eyes,
I think I am going mad as the house flies
Who pivot into glass to pass their time,
Self-contained and distended as ostrich eggs

Do you hear me when I sleep?
As I hold on to your gentle hand,
While winter’s first dust settles on our heads.

To live in a false dream,
Yet still, I long for the warmth of coffee
between you and our furry friend.

And to die by your side,
such a soft, forgiving way to leave
This earth, so full of quiet ghosts.

I whisper your name beneath my dreaming eyelids,
And my eyes, flickering, seem to glow with the pulse of rem-embering
The day I’ll die a thousand silent needles.

Do you hear me say it, your name, in my dream?
It was always you within the aurora lights,
The one I cling to, between sleep and wake.