Wrap it in hands
Then it's on
Spun, thrown, and kicked away
My eyes are on your throat and you can smell my fear.
A moon, some stars, and the pale reflections of better selves - an argument comprising 3 things of dust.
The sentences become longer as the urgency increases and the staccato drip into the empty place inside fucking pounds and pounds dully into my spine.
a flower, a puppy, a fire in space - and that is not enough.
then, also, it can never be enough.
3 keys on a piano solve everything until next time when they don't.
Be a continuum - if pleasant.