i wanna sail and sail
          on horizon's port;  
vista: fresh neat yellow scotch w/ old      beef-red wine,
          sometimes seems like
                orange juice spilt over the sky and sometimes,
      lumps of candy floss
                of an orange colour dye.

           Towering mast;
                 our blessed dilapidated boat;
  ~where slicked hair,
          ~arched eyebrows,
  ~dropped jaws,
          ~bulging eyes,
and sacredness sit;
                       lingered breaths and
                    two collapsing ribcages,
   a place where sugared lips once kissed.