Leave your coat at home, lovebird.
I'll keep you warm with one or two
tales about that time I fell in love
with the way you spoke about your
favorite book, or the way you looked
when you came out of the shower
with water as your skin.
Moan my touch, lovebird.
I'll drink the liquid bronze that falls
through your thighs after I'm done
painting hell between your legs, and
you'll call me the devil for making
you arch your back and turn you into
a bridge all of my demons can cross
through.
Say you crave my heart, lovebird.
We'll taste each other's mouths as
we wait for the clock to scream it's
sunrise and our hearts have melted
into syrup and sunbeams that we
can call the cause of our gluttony.
We're full of desire and love now; we
can leave and start our own world.
Let me put you on a pedestal, lovebird.
I could admire you for hours while
you rest on top of me—always above
me like the Goddess that you are.
Conquer the last bit of my kingdom
by telling me that I can love you
and that everyone was wrong when
they said that the serpent was faulty
for Eve eating the apple.
Break the old blasphemy, lovebird.
(It wasn't my fault. It wasn't. I promise
you. Tell me, my love, tell me. Tell me
that she chose to be infected, just like
you chose to be destroyed. Tell me,
lovebird, tell me.
We can eat all the apples of every tree
afterwards.)
