He would never know
that when he crosses his arms
and arches his back,
his shirt rides up
and those two inches of skin
between the bottom of his shirt
and the top of his jeans
is the place where my heart races
and my voices leaves me
and I become breathless.

I wish not to fall upon the poor mans death,
The death of broken glass, of infinite sickness.
The fire raging,
Raging within my soul pleads no
To a passing around my waist, for
Wasted life it would be, calling me free.
I musn’t live to fight, but to greet
The running rays blinding nocturnal cries.
Live, live the blistering light,
The
Greed I
Know,
The
never ending
Fright.

we had
no
i
deal
ideal
we
had
no ideal
we ran
away
we
are still crying

she stung
?














...
..
.