If I could walk backwards through your dreams-- the cold sweats, the dark of night. If I could step welcome into this fever, this passage fraught with hearts. These are but the least of wishes that sink me, just seeing you. There is a door way and a light bulb. There is the thread of evidence I once was here. A fingerprint that you could read and read. The bramble bound to over grow.
Only the wounds would weep, these lists of masteries, these numbing depths of useless notation. Only the memories would wait for the fires to burn. The dense forays out of fashion, the scars listing out of control. These flowers that only bloom when the skin is granted. So the hours left to kiss. So the words only lips can lose.
All the gods of murder and jokes are there staring at you. They lurk anywhere your flesh subsides, sifting through the shadows, lingering in your heat. This is our vigil, this is the tide of my appetites. Fingers made from sweat and pause. The only touch you can not abide. The night idles in this wide tangle. A line of silk stepped through in the dark of dreaming. Something broken in choosing tomorrow.
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