He is painted murky, rivers gushing, under his bold glistening skin; Blood rises in his, drain pipe veins, floods, through faucet eyes, that mesmerise, muddy brown and intense; Sands, deliberately rounded pebbles, some fossils collect under the banks, of his nails; Sentiments sediment there; The deepest waters of the steadiest, streams combine, in his soul; His heart is made, like this Earth was more liquid and life;
How old is he? What does he know? How seizing is his unrest… that I am caught in?
I am clutching at the brim, swimming under his surface, lapping, inquisitions into him; And he is rushing over me, thinning my blood with the aqueous near-kiss. I am yet to master defeat let him inundate my inquest my every protest and simply drown, to become his.