All of the time spent configuring
to your Island's rules, and standards,
is now respectfully due;
up for inspection, conflagration.
Replay my compulsion to
pelt you with my good graces, packed
thick, and intravenously, with an
interest calculated to shoulder
the circumfrence of an empty,
Burn – You leave behind
heated lacerations when you snap your
jaws around my meticulous
misgivings. My minuscule mistakes.
Pieces of your teeth
decorate my lunar tendencies.
I've led myself down the forest path
of savory roses and singed blue fireflies.
I pocket sprigs of rosemary along the way.
They rot too quickly to be of any use,
but I find comfort in their weight.
I give you stolen crystals
and you give me glass.