a silk lavender splatter in the crevices where my bone marrow used to reside; a sulphurous twinkle in the arches of my neurons; sanguine cascade of panic! surges down the valleys of my spine and glory be!
(i am delivered! i am delivered! i am delivered! i have been set free!)
my limbs are saturated with divinity as he sweeps across the trickling ice and when he lies down each night, the seraphims gather by his side and prick prick prick; dig for that treasure and maybe you can find overflowing fruit sap and lemonade sunrise
(the day the day the day has arrived!)
euphonious melodies slither down my throat and trace my heart and lick my ventricle (i think it was both) and my right atrium is all electric and my pulmonary vein sticks with orchestric clouds that leak mozart; he injects my cerebra with a power plug and now i'm all sixties jukebox with a little too much punk rock
(raise up and come forth! salvation, i say! the day the day the day is today!)
and i don't think you fucking understand what i mean when i say that i'm dying a pretty death. there are swans cradling my hollow self when he tells me about his day. there is a chorus of seraphims and their voices start to elevate whenever he lacerates my checkered heart and puts them on his shelf like prized souvenirs - that you steal from your local grocery store.
(open your eyes and gaze upon light!)
i store pieces of his kaleidoscopic heart in the pockets of my backpack. he tries to offer me more, but i don't play the part of the beggar. although, i wouldn't mind a bit more because i might get hungry before lunch. my collection is getting full, is it possible for you to give me something new?
(he is bright brighter brightest baby!)
he gives me a bag of his oxygen:
"i don't need it. it's all for you," he says
(stay with me for i cannot bear to lose)
i like to wear his jacket. i like to drown in his spinal fluid. i like to burn in his sweltering cavities. i like to drink the oasis that lies upon his chest. i like to hide in the cribs of ribcage. i like to die in his love.
materialistic infatuation is not what we are.
-
when u delete the other parts and rewrite this book because it was about someone else, but you have now found The One and it has been a month of talking. i just want to hold his damn hand.
