Your pupils are black holes that pull me like how a tornado pulls at the gutter on the side of a tin roof house in the middle of Oklahoma. But instead of a gutter with rain, it’s blood funneled through my veins and instead of blood, it’s liquid love.
If you’re broken you can pour me into the valleys of your cracked up porcelain skin because I am made of liquid love. And I’ll stick to you because of the force of cohesion or of adhesion or viscosity or something like that. To be honest, I never cared much about science. I was really only interested in our chemistry.
I actually don’t know anything except that your bruises are interstellar clouds and that the most comfortable bed to sleep in is hiding underneath your fingernails. I like how you’re covered in speckles like a knock-off Jackson Pollock. But instead of freckles they are constellations and I am a quasi astronomer-artist who believes more in zodiac compatibility than Attiyah’s Sun theory.
I think this poem is unravelling like that sweater I lost in your house. These last few stanzas are the loose string. Even though we are falling apart, nothing is going to stop me from pretending you’re a Gothic cathedral, I’m a hopeless romantic, and we’re both in the middle of an architectural revival. Nothing stops our hair from growing or the universe from expanding or people from living in the core of tornado alley. So if you want to get drunk off my fermenting liquid love, nothing is stopping you from doing that either.
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