Under covers
So cold
Out there
On the plane
Waiting for takeoff
Where is home?
Under her skin
is fire
and flame.
Like lava
in her veins.
Drawn to her consuming light
I'm a moth
happily cruising
towards her brightness.
The damp chill
pilfers my breath and sits
in my marrow.
The originality
Of the originalist
Tires.
Where were you?
Marching for my death and
calling it justice.
Was there a
beginning for
love without end?