All the traces of a sickened heart
become diluted by the
velvet wash of yours; surging,
purple, viscous rythmed orb.
Soothing, elevated, warm
thud like oatmeal on the
worn out threads of the stomach.
You the softest radiator of the food
my psychic bust elates for.
The wet pat of our tongues meeting
the retreat.
A surge as 20 thousand butterflies
coursing thick as a plague
out of an old solarium for the first time in their lives
and then halted by a hot ribboning wave.
An electrifying truncation followed always
by a blissful, elderflower scented scarf of chemistry.
Sometimes we send messages with our eyes.
The net of our gaze teaming with silver fish.
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