Tell me, wild child.
Tell me, wild child, what it feels like to make love to the sky.
I see your doe eyes speckled with antique gold and your sharp tongue flickering with tales of your affairs, and I can’t help but swallow you whole. Your words melt into script that dances across my cerebrum wall, the letters blinking like old flames, one two three four, in tempo with your clicking gums. I’m mesmerized.
Tell me, wild child, what it feels like to make love to the past.
I feel your flesh rippling underneath my weathered hands and your breath catching, caught, gone, and I can’t seem to make out your form among the salt and dust. You taste of liquid sun and tainted blood, and your tangled nest of locks are smothering me, bringing me back, throwing me down. I’m paralyzed.
Tell me, wild child, what it feels like to make love to the dead.
I hear your lullabies pulsating in the stale air and your curses crumbling into layer after layer of rot, and I can’t believe the scene of your limbs unraveling and your lips drying before my bastard eyes, the realization cradling my passive state, lighting the fuse to push a word over my tongue. I’m ostracized.
I see your doe eyes speckled with antique gold and your sharp tongue flickering with tales of your affairs, and I can’t help but swallow you whole. Your words melt into script that dances across my cerebrum wall, the letters blinking like old flames, one two three four, in tempo with your clicking gums. I’m mesmerized.
Tell me, wild child, what it feels like to make love to the past.
I feel your flesh rippling underneath my weathered hands and your breath catching, caught, gone, and I can’t seem to make out your form among the salt and dust. You taste of liquid sun and tainted blood, and your tangled nest of locks are smothering me, bringing me back, throwing me down. I’m paralyzed.
Tell me, wild child, what it feels like to make love to the dead.
I hear your lullabies pulsating in the stale air and your curses crumbling into layer after layer of rot, and I can’t believe the scene of your limbs unraveling and your lips drying before my bastard eyes, the realization cradling my passive state, lighting the fuse to push a word over my tongue. I’m ostracized.