You drink the breath from my lungs under the guise of yearning kisses. The phosphorous in your mouth tastes like opium. You fish about with idle fingers in a moldy collection of frayed puzzle pieces. You nibble at my drowsy exhalations with a forked tongue. Your pale fingers idly plug jigsaw fragments into the hollow of your throat. When you aren't watching, I fix your mistakes. Ninety degrees at a time. I have the pristine privilege of the perfected portrait to guide us.

10:35 p.m. - 2015-10-26