You’ve got one of those seven faces of the pale skinned world. Every time I leave the house I see you. The shape of your skull catches at me from the passing crowd, the outline of your face. You’re so made of where you’re from it makes me ache. Pedestrian pub-crawl hair over perfect even teeth. Everything in between photographs badly because you think about it. I saw what you did with the camera. You move like a bird. Jagged, almost quick, everything you pick up a seed. I want a history like you have. I want a land, a people, a family culture. I want to walk on stones, feel the dead rise up beneath me in a rising tide of What Has Been. I can speak your voice now. You’re not getting it back until you beg me for it. This place is too new, too lacking in blood.
I’m known for desiring architecture.
Falling inside like water from a great height. Crane my neck back hoping to catch a glimpse of what I’m given, but I’m drowning in it. My eyes are closing. Slow lapping waves in this pool at the bottom. The base of this, this wash of caught tears. Strychnine stimulant for the central nervous system. Just add your hands.
Bleeding me like an older century doctor. Taking my pulse with a soft sweet tongue. It’s singing again, my bones living crystal. You shimmer and break me. This tone raining from your letters. It’s glamour you cast. Lasting for days, blossoming into heat to warm my fingers. I want to touch you to show you. I want to touch you to make you Mine.
Where are you taking me?