More Damned

A silky surrender down
because the ocean tastes like lollipops
with your hand sliding underneath her skirt.
It wouldn't hurt.
And your sugar scented sunrises along the foggy banks of
just enough
to still say yes.
She took a left.
Alright.
Right along toy waterfalls and back lit photographs
to purely enjoy her shape.
Clear cellophane and
black curtains hang to guarantee no privacy.
Hardly awake enough to breathe
When you paint her memory in
Little Latin letters
along
the Milky Way.
She's far more worth a sculpture.


I understand.