Pulp;

I have found sainthood within you.

You conquer my voice, even though it dances to the shivering of my fingers. The universe slows movement in each of your syllables and you leave me shaken, waiting for explanations. And I don't know what to expect.

I lock myself in for a moment or two, counting the seconds before you become my first, having no excuse; only scenarios as they wrap around our necks. But I'm the one losing breath.

I have found poetry in your guitar strings.

Ink-printed notes, muffled behind standing ovation, yet you still are a play.

And if bobby pens were voyagers, they would've made it to so-called villages, rumbled inside waves like duplicates of the sun rays, illuminating knots as they are. Your shoulder blades would've been shorelines and then fullstops.

Darling, we must be shattered enough to convulse Atlas off our berm

And we must be shattered enough

To scatter the children of bedlam for nameless skeletons. With bony toes that still curl platforms; this is one of three deadly things the dead can feel. The other two being rebirth and dirt.

There are too many wishbone bridges to carry a city of friability and to fill in blanks, wreckage for river banks. 

And then you speak flat notes fleeing opera house.

I have found pavements in your footprints.

This is how to find a way out with a broken compass.

This is how I bypass my base because I'm so easily triggered; my arms are rifles and, to my surprise, I carry bullets. 

Throwing stones from a glass door is the revolution sealing your backbone shut.

Secrets occupy the heart, rumors flow in the student body.

Beauty is learnt to exist like desired destruction, insisting on decaying like rubble that once built monuments for moments I used to count.

I am bound to be your angst-driven, self-indulgent lullaby.

I have found night watch circling your wrist instead of wristwatch.

Cremate me and scribe my ashes then scrub off the dust. Because home is the brutality in honesty which strengthens your temples. 

I am restless between elbows, I bow to never finish writing our closure, as I am trying to capture what's always vivid, and maybe this is why I am a flailing failing photographer.

After all, serendipities do no good to sirens. And you are the mess I regret creating and cleaning up.

I speak in the most improper of languages, but if you don't have a breaking point, you're already at it.

This comes from where I love rather from where I hate.