His soul looked like the fracturing of the first stars, and he carried oceans in his wrists, I asked if I could swallow them, he tastes like chocolate and lonely bookstores, the ones on the corner with tattered edges, my laughter spills out like violets, on a lonely Tuesday, I eat clementines on the kitchen floor, he said things like, "you're going to be the death of me," and I wanted to fill the hallows of his heart, his clothes were damp with musty sadness, but his spine could electrocute my heavy bones, he tasted like chocolate and adventure, French films and cigarettes, white wine above the Seine, I look at you as fondly as the moon, it was raining and cold outside the night we met, but you lit the warmth in me
he looks like death, it’s so hot a.c.m.