Our hums collect, sour-smelling like dripping limes under dull a orb in the static sky. Shadows remind me of something sweet, puddles in your bed that felt the static cling to mingle with sweat, impatience and cool sucking lips. We become burning cinders, darting cherry bulbs that smolder. Lick a deadly smoking gun, the match is lit.
I dream for roles like Cinderella behind curtains of hair. Lime light wore away the stage, hurling us into oblivion. Illumination erases the shadows of his hand print, projectors with no sound are worthless, showing only silent lips.
Icy freckles melt into lonely constellations, squeezing meaning from my slowing pulse. I pray to the sugary pulp between my ears. The moon drips music as the curtain closes.