While I was breathing the footsteps of a city, the concrete click of hard boots on tile, I was striking perception against a skyline to see if anything would spark. I could only hope that your mind was tinder-dry and splintered, carefully stacked to flare into blaze. A crackle of leaves in the shape of paper soaked with flammable ink. So your pupils would reflect a phrase I should have shared last night, obscured in the haze of scotch and other whiskeys.
The explanations became unreachable. Like the breaking point of your chin. The cliff where tears and sweat plummet to your chest without touching a finger or the heel of a hand. And we became tangled in syllables of sympathy that removed the burden of affection.
Because the truth is, darling, love like this is possible for any mirror image. The inverse of colours folding in reflection. You were smudged lines and smeared edges waiting for my visual cortex to interpret you.