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.