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His chiseled detonation (a writhing in any combination) entered my arid kingdom stealthily (wounded but immune from dying), sneaking in behind dreamy, faraway membrane drift, the quiet of another day, another need for the sun. His pastel symphony, the lascivious ticking of seconds he tucked neatly away in piles of digital sand each morning...my hair still melts at the mere thought of another meticulously gridded flow of murder climbing into my cunt.

(Every fifth string deleted, the quest to feel all of him at once).

He was a raging warlock who had the power to film the walls of passion (pulsating, dialing the edges). Gore left to dry on the windowpane, white pills held aloft. The arcane lashed out at my simmering fabric when I eventually came to resent how often he'd peer into my bursting guts, casually allowing his razor to punish my pussy's red cinema (beyond any astronomy). His thighs came to smother me in the night (stars approaching the city) but failed to striate my tomorrows, repeatedly exposing my mind to the moon's soft caress. I would even suture the boulevard that worked through my usual metallic scree (and its brighter facial hair) to appease his growing appetite for revolution now.

I was hopeless.

I've always had a thing for arsonists, the elected leaders of snakes who faded into my incomprehension (eating the clarinet). Now, with the myriad protected by the late breeze, I can finally take the time necessary to reflect, to place his every detail in the rectangle provided when I masturbate the aisles of flesh and drugs in my pocket. I still daydream about the galvanized dread (tossed sorrow's tome) that seemed to reach out for me from his dry, grinding verdantry. Sweat drizzling possibilities at gun-point. These precious moments reek of stolen subtleties and the rictus immersed in wanting it to last forever.

No matter how much I wanted to, though, my spiral failed me continually. It refused to chain itself to the few remaining embers left glowing in his wild meat sermons (the hanged man). Iam left to wander these silent streets (a frozen ocean of DNA) aimlessly, and I can only sell my loneliness to the traces of his blackened scent left in the drunken semiotics of futuristic drumming heard coming from buzzing wires overhead. Milk and raw absinthe can write love sonnets to themselves for all I care.