As if there's a piano on your skin.
Fingers banging naughty notes
That shouldn't make sense.
But I do.
Stripes of bruises glow
Black on your thigh,
Eight kisses deep,
Each chased by a sigh.
The key to your smile changes, but your laughter is cheap;
its bitterness pounds off the glass ceiling.
When I point at
it, it thins
bubble-thick, and
POP!
I catch 22 mirrors on my tongue.
Tick, tock,
Tick, tock.
I count white lies to seduce sleep.
I don't want to dream.
But I do.
