dark and brooding;
you menace, you.
gaunt and godly,
your dark eyes, like bits of night sky,
scan over my skin,
my imperfect features.
I want to examine you through telescopes
like constellations.
I want to plant red poppies along your spine,
your collarbones.
I want to unravel your tangles,
illuminate your insides.
I want you,
under a microscope,
early in the morning,
on a silver platter,
you.

I need you with me always or else never at all, for the leaving is too much to bear. There is only a single fixed point in this chaotic sea that is my soul, and that is love; a suffocating, drowning obsession with that which is near, near but not yet arrived.
     The death of me has vast brown eyes and a laugh that tastes like flight, and his smile is made of sun. I cannot breathe when he is away, nor when he presses his lips against my skin; I am breathless to the point of death, and it is as heavy as the whole of time condensed into the span of a few seconds.
     I want this suffocation or else nothing at all; this terminal lack of air or else the void of darkness that surely exists in death if a love like ours cannot endure.
     Hold my hand all the days of my life, or else never touch me again. I cannot bear this in between.