To be only six stars from heaven,
a fandango of charcoaled satin, stung with a
mango drip. Invisible divinity to a brittle moon.
While edgewise strands conflict reason
against his fallacious eyes, they weep among
the fables we fuck, longing to make them true.
His gregarious lips
tenderize my iniquitous skin. Purity lost,
texture translucent to the succulent skies.
And juniper wounds
steal our souls, swallowed
beneath the stitches of dawn's honeydew sap.
As we are grasping for tonight
stripping a grapefruit of it’s citrus flare.
Inquisitively we pursue, aching for
the silhouette of palpable sight. Ravenous as
sandpaper paws, lapping at a taste-less louse.
...Now with you,
to be only five stars from heaven…
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