want.
I want to string you into the necklace that the moon too would brandish, dangling you from her crescent.
I want to stand on your shoulders unflinching while your burning surface bores the soles of my feet.
I want to set you delicately on a blanket in the cordial shade of tree some spring afternoon and eat you.
I want to ride your wings that with their every undulation swallow a star and savor the aftertaste.
I want to shatter your wineglass against a chorus of wails from the deep, foreign hearts of beggar girls in love.
I want to bathe in your muse, douse myself with all that hovers above your head and months later, smell your poetry still in my hair.
I want to count your every atom and know the chasms between your atoms, the exact places at which you stop existing, points absent from the linear line of mortality but floating about some unnamed plane.