Torrid

Lips

Soft as lilies

Plucked from a chilled lake

On the outskirts of a burning city

Hands

Fit me like gloves

Tailored and God-made

As we fall into us

A little death saves us from the degradation of life

In your hands I die, and die, and die

Come up and undone

Inside

I watch you die, and die, and die

Messy, sweaty suicide

Kickstarts a breath and a sophic smile

Nothing. Nothing but this.

Hold my hand and let’s fall into it

Again

Tulips from the outskirts of a city on fire

Pure on my lips

Pure as every burning morning

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