Sublime to be a poet,

To story the rife,
the dark religion of your ardor,
the wild, petaled tantrums of your lap.

Glad for my magic kit of spells, love letters, elegies.

My needle is weaving the scripture of fetish.
My tub is filling with colorful water.

Sometimes pitiful too.

To lie in the grass and cry,
to think of your perfect mouth,
the deliciousness of its shape and sound,
and cry …

To do anything, and always cry.

Sometimes I am black as an ink ribbon,
Sometimes too pale and soft to live.

I am without a proper shell,

And you, my gentle, are a boot.