If loving you is
wrong, by song of its completion, then dying has become illegal. Buttercream
eyes, elongated nape, caressing eyebrows; a feeling made mesquite, an emotion
out of order, the cage I ingest; a blacksmith with keys, a drummer with drums,
a violinist with a cello—to have loved like fugitives, racing into blueprints,
so grand—pineapple assurance; frightened to see you, alert to hear you, knowing
home is over yonder—many footpaths, augmented lusts, fretting it might grow
wings. Tarred and feathered—ink-stoned rubies, fiending over luxury hips,
intrepid thighs, a woman, as opposed to something gray—floating into fantasy,
framed in fevers, alert to a galaxy—withstanding the furies; lips parted, gaze
treacherous, glowing like Angelica—the pain of its habits, so wrong in debate,
to fret over ought behaviors. Looking intently. You know my thoughts.
Trying a hand at slow paces, featured in allergies, so great the force.
