CicatrizGemini

cracks and pitter-patters on glass coffins: the sound of dead republics clashing, the aftertaste of benzoates on the roof of pink mouths. is our rain acid, yet?

crossing places like i cross your name from pages of my solitary book. you aren't quite sunshine but you aren't a maelstrom: you are a cauldron of venom of epileptic fears that grip the vessels beneath me skin; you, you are a beating drum in the vacuum of space's nothing-- the bitter taste of blood versus beer, that sound that struck me dumb in the catacombs of northern greece.

the veins that wind between your knuckles and twist across your wounded hands are the ligaments threading my tongue to yours; puncture wounds across fingertips, trackmarks up our arms into our hearts. will we survive, will this suffice? alienating the irreverent, wading through the sickest of intent, i hope we find the thread that will sew our eyes shut.