it starts off all twisted,
artistic and meek.
the sheets in a tangle, we tangoed,
in the sleek night.
our wrists chained to floarboards,
im pumping.
again, oh
im thumping.
along
past my collarbone's palindrome,
(that sensitive hollow)
making impressions in memory foam.
onetwo, and threefour.
yes, go on-
rest your head here, and read what you wrote.
remember last night,
when that spot in my chest soared up past my throat,
and the light in your eyes
swallowed my conscience alive,
oh god-
and we burned,
with the stars
I spun.
and cared not to dream, but be rash: come undone.
precariously hung,
on the bedpost.
we sang amid silence,
clutching at pillows and pretense,
feeding black scarves on my eyelids.
needing a breath-
as i sank,
shining red-
through my webbed primidorial,
to the safety of bloodshed.