I didn’t think of you when I wrote this, but it’s got your
musk, your scent devoted to it. The kind that makes some flash points of
synapse your image in my flesh, my mind, that thing we can’t grasp like shaking
our own hands. You’ve got enough colour
to finger paint your breaths in counter shades and micron lengths but
complement each gasp
And you,
are a cold mountain breeze, you’re the A.C. in early spring
on my wet back after bad dreams. You shook me up, running tread-eyes and
milling my side eyes for quips. Now my bloated bodies beat, hard, bruised,
hemorrhaging. All puse and olfactory felonies . Small vains off-world-blue and
arteries rising to the crust, quaking my basalt surface; building gullies where
fat stretches
And me,
I want your warmth, I want the radiator burns on my cheeks
from your canvas frame shoulders. And I’m not water bound but ask me, I will be
your loon. And I ain’t tryna simp but speak and I’ll eat myself through till my
dentin grinds on bone and air hums past my wounds. I want your mark. My trace
on your cloak, or never do but write it in a poem, in a song, in a joke cause,
We are ideas, bit map stacks on harddrives, and you may
never know that this
is from me. And if you never were again this message would
outlive me, from my fingers tips to your eyes and somewhere in a server farm
until the servers die.
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