drinking agave syrups while soaking black coffee - that sits on your window sill turning bitter with the drowning sun - into your pores saying it'll cancel out the sweet in you, the sweet that you so righteously claim noone deserves
who is the mortal king of war? The war that your charcoal filled soul collude with your tumescent scalp (a retelling of your chaotic mental health) against your skin growing tickseed instead of black frail threads that tend to pull you into any static force of destructive emotions
your vanilla filled fingers are staining the hot asphalt as they melt;weaving into your lover's cashmere hair while you massage their metrical scalp (a retelling of their cosmic mental health) and you've been thinking it was them all along when infact honey you left the fragrance of your warm vanilla sweet sweet blissful fingertips behind
you bite into your darlings cherry cheeks while they paint the orange sun between your hips
your fraudulent self has bloomed its first white rose honey you're akin to chaos;knack for squashing dragon fruit pulp with your bare hands onto your lover's embarked poetry amidst the gaps of your teeth
chug in another glass of your secular agave syrup and not let the coffee any close to you, you find your lover's head on your throbbing chest, but you're wearing their favourite scent of coffee (ironic) still weaving your vanilla fingers until they're burning until they're rotten until they smell of flesh and bare skin and sweat and dirt and you're no longer a honeysuckle child of HEDYLOGOS as you used to be
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hello hello i hope you're healthy
