Your hand found my heart with ease,
just as your words always found cracks in weakened armor,
and with the same fluidity that constantly drew my gaze,
filling me with childish need atop the comfort of company,
even if lonely:
we were never ones to stand individually.
Then you play my heart strings,
with the skill of devoted pianists and the poise
of Egyptian princes,
garbed in such confidence I have no choice but to move my lips
to words hummed beneath your steady breath;
the words my heart stammers over,
as weak a fool as ever.
Necessities mash like fevered lips,
merging us as one being,
one entity of which to rejoice with proclamations of fragile love.
and when our lips do make war,
I kiss you into my own oblivion,
drawing you deeper inside me to dwell and comfort,
though you decay fleshly walls
and expanding sacks of breath,
a bloody clash of love producing broken wills and such
mangling us further towards impending destruction:
so horribly together,
yet so torturously apart.
and even death cannot purge my lips of your name.