a sinner’s face brings loneliness; and such, loneliness informs the heart. if the temperature of my self-imposed, freezing loneliness shifts ever so slightly, then I’m stuck sinning—indifferent to my principles.
a simple nudge and I shatter across the floor.
sex is simply a struggle with death
i decompose with my lack of touch, your frame a conductor to my warmth
my eyes spiral in color
shine in paint
i drink it thin
and gush out red
where cities grow in erotica, its townspeople grow in death
men can forget death, yet i eject colors and spit forms from my mouth, but something always remained—you
i wish that for every step you take, you feel a residual kiss to which you take a step back, wondering if it was real