We live in a world of infinite possibilities
and gods now seem mundane,
where my words have history holding
their backs as bastions of echoed time.
Where your body holds the image of literally
every pleasure held before you.
Such an immaculate, divine shriek of the tear
in the fabric of fiction that birthed everything.
If your legs grow numb, focus on the floods of pleasure
between them in the negative space
accentuated by my fingers, tongue, and obelisk.
If your chest burns, embrace the fires of Rome
and let me incite them further with a thunderstorm
of unmitigated, unabated touching, kissing, licking.
If your head beats, dance to that kick snare and clap your
hands together around my obsidian back as I plummet into you.
We make love like phoenixes.
We argue like the blind, weak, pitiful bastards
of the willowing alleys.
But when we hear each other’s voices they took from us
we blare the bells and clarion calls and weep until we seep
into the melted stardust of our skins.
Drown me with your years.
Chip away at me until only death can grasp my image.
Dig your nails into my skin until I release the sin inside of you.
Let us watch humanity evolve like never before
but in complete boredom, unimpressed with their late progress
to a regal rise we have known since we knotted together.