he called it a kiss. i called it a misrepresentation of a moment held lip to lip. hardly mentionable. if anything, exceedingly questionable of the stillness that holds silence in the dark. it lays thick. the silence. a hung canopy weighted in the air of deadly gasses to the masses particulate clouded in smokey haze and devilish grins of sarcasm and uncompensated limbs. how dare he even speak that word? he calls it a kiss. I take a drag of a menthol cigarette and exhale bullshit. we were once so beautiful then. no wrinkly lines to expose wasted years and wasted tears held with grains of sand and unspoken arguments that became our religion. the passion, an unrequited love marked by inked x's and o's reserved for secret lines and tell tale signs of what was passion of a honeymoon phase now the spark sprinkled from the star gazing eye dreaming of a hundred ways to become that reverie again. that mystical way in a graze of the skin became an ignitio...

he must be a god. Exhume him as a cartographers secret fetish twisting lines and deep curvatures as mountains stretch forth east and west. Ripples and valleys more. Much...much more. i am his center. Enveloped in the sweet moisture of his breath fuzzy memory of auditory beckoning shadow his reign over me. the unlike cliche of deep sound  where it meets vocal command even the whisper of him makes me listen. I hear him. Mouth and lips more. I listen. Cadence becomes undocumented synchronicity the mere parallel universe where I once escaped from emotional purgatory. Could you imagine a yell? His raising of octaves would command oceans to part and separate the seas from the salt of the earth, counting grains to become glass struck down from the result of the Heavens a faint sound to open ears. He's calling- and I come. No hesitance. No second thought or momentary lapse of indecision. He is so much more. he exists as truth, and I am his philosoph...