My altered DNA,
hormonal repossession
of a deteriorating
fabricated thorn.

Pricking the sides of our transgressive sinusoidal curves.
At Pi, Pi over four, and 3 Pi.

All I want to do is hallucinate,
with you.
In this feel good frenzy
we call love.

But lovers break.
And I have no best friend.
Do you?

Grasp
my hand,
for I am lonely.
Kiss my lips,
for I am solely
responsible
for my gut’s reaction.
To you.

Let us not love like lovers,
quick and easy, drowning in the mire;
but be as love’s light messengers,
reducing our desires.

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