Meet me there, in the smell of sweet decay, between the light of what is and what could’ve been.
Meet me. I’ll hold you until you fall into holding me but no one will suffer more than I will. No one can take in what I’ve made.
Golden ink served on a silver plate; the fruit’s not ripe, the meat’s not done and your skin’s not fresh enough to dissect.
A true swordsman rises to fall again.
Agony is resistant, rising nonchalantly between the stars.
I have to give in sooner or later, the world can only be given to what I’ve made.
Meet me there.
Let our bodies fall into tongues.