I'm watching us diminish as we whirl further past the sun's hem.
You can't see it.
You loathe my music; you loved it once.
Over time it's become clear
that everything tastes better before its prime
and this love is no supple lamb.
I think my voice is too familiar:
It's the thunder that has been heard so often
that it's now become the calm; silent.
You cry lucifer's tears
from the black intestine of a cavern
with uniform-walls; you bring hell to my ears
and you are immutable.
You came to me, covered in hands
and I spent years peeling back fingers
just to force mine through so that you'd know
you had been touched. Now, bare of intimacy
the nakedness owns you.
Every word that was shielded by your malleable, thewy figures
is lightning through the rain, pecking
about your coursed skin with my own two hands
cooling each burn.