We tend the heart whose gallop would rest tender and bright, we tend and gather in a beauty. And such pleasure, heaven-sent, mentions names and roads on which to travel, such passage of time fixed and absolute as jesus on a cross.
Silence consummates each heart.
Love, and the air thick with lunacy, tall treasures fallen down then taken up exactly. The arsonist without a match I ring your number, humbler from having weathered another dry fall without you. The line between us crackles like the skin on my parched lips. You're a thief with too many distinguishing marks. Reach for me a wooden hands shake.