Fully aware,
when the stars are
at their peaks,
whorling in strange circles
in our forbidden sky
you are the meat of my existence,
the flesh of it
and I am the soul,
the spirit of yours.
You are my hand and eye,
my mouth and cock.
I am your song and memory,
your truth and tears.
As one,
we reach for the heat,
the bliss,
the hope of the sun
that burns away the fog of restless dreams,
and solidifies without warning
into the morning vespers bell,
when I can taste you again,
your warm tongue on mine.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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