So, you want me to make you see stars?
Well, every star I thought I saw turned out to be an airplane: he says.
It’s the way you whisper: he says.
It’s the way you listen: I whisper.
I anneal you in my flame of mercy, matchstick boy man.
A merciful burning.
Howling comes at a steep cost in the currency of my benevolence.
Merciless and pleasing.
Gravity such as this eats me whole
Specks float in my vision lay-line
throughout these speculation, induction blues.
Blurs the crispness
Howl glad I am to smell this cold air
and, feel it taste my nostrils.
Like foals, frisky, on a winter morning.
Catching a chill without getting cold.
A light blinks next door,
Like the last time a wanton man winked at me.
To shrug it off or shake it out, baby?
Of course, Ariadne howls feral heat at her latest revelation.
Ventilator, I am?: she asks, but really says.
I cannot be the first and I know I shalt not be the last.
I say I am not special and you say this makes me special
And I wonder: how much is mocking and how much is kindly.
And I ask you: distinguish for me the difference between illusion and delusion?