your eyes are like honey
oozing from the hives, like chocolate I lick from my fingertips, sparking on my
tongue, golden and warm and fattening; a drop of ink pooling in the midst of
the sickly sweet concoction God sculpted your face into out of the sides of the
riverbank. the ebony of your pupils bleeds into the color, if you can even call
it such; a color the painters cannot bottle, a color with a fabricated name
stamped onto my brain, onto a little place enshrouded in fog where I’d call you
my own, look into the depths of those eyes (try to look at both of them until
my own colors cross and I fall into your chest) and forget my own face until I
see a dusty reflection of it in those discolored black holes. and then I would be
an Adam-ish Eve and find the names for your hues under rocks with the
centipedes and their black mud; in the leaves when the sun filters through and
tattoos a shadow onto my skin, so pale and spotted against yours.
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