(that we are a risk is carved right into the finest tissues of our flesh; and it tugs at the deeper breath of my soul as we embrace. listen to the birds sing—closer to the sky it is maybe we can steal their wings in flight, you my angel and i the mortal thrashing out in my ecstasy to hang onto your back—listen to the sun as it rises softly through the clouds. you can hear the morning, and in sound it is more beautiful than in sight.
but it is in touch and the intangible that you are the most beautiful, and as i press my cheek into the soft curve of your ear it strikes me that we are, indeed, a risk. sometimes, dare to care not about the little things, and they will cease to matter. grow thoughts and feelings, and in the warm embrace of our furtive diablerie sight will fade away; and even if there be absolute darkness the hint of your hand will keep me sane.
in carelessness our laughter is scattered over the rough floor of this sunrise-shod rooftop like saffron on rice, tenderly carpeting our consciousness and taking us into words we can only imagine. i yearn, yes, i want i need i live, and perhaps you do too, as we play hide and seek among the many thousands of people. and yet we are as little insects crawling on walls, seceding peace to the infrequent footfalls pulsating beneath our skin as our hearts beat.
the wounds on our faces are healed by each other. as our breaths become on in the still early-morning air the scent of your being intoxicates me, and hungrily we kiss, desiring with such force that you fill my lungs and my self.
take me, my dearest, on your wings of song.)