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your eyes are palms that so comfortably can mold my corpse into something,someone sometime,an unhollow breath to follow your(allure sifting and starlit,evergreen everglades the eddies of your voice lingered,rosy dews heavenly,this misanthrope,i,no longer buried; the colors of our skin match in the dark,where kisses know naught but the clandestine of )us yes,mistakable and heartedly,your arms collapse into the form of me relieving the senses of wind and sun o,how Mother cannot understand what this means: not grass nor sea not sky nor tree ,but the remembrance of us,the nostalgia of the last second the last hours of one summer’s day the lips that ran themselves again and always again against the topography of our delicates the reminder of unrest that so helplessly slipped between our fingers,between our knees and shoulders the finite(of our tongues which left behind all traces of lick,to meet once more under the sunrise where everything,everyone,everytime made the body weak