Are these my eyes or just wet stones? Is that the swelling of the sea against the shore or has the world reformed from inside-out? Did we climb to high, my dear? Are the cliffs the only place you feel alive? We cut our hands and kissed the wind while skipping stones and shedding skin. We made a god and laid our shaking bodies at her feet then stumbled naked through the door and stumbled out of bed in the morning light but too early to be seen by prophets cursing in the streets and beggars preaching peace in faithful calm and solidarity. We resurrected power lines and let them drip blue-green sparks upon our lips like little kids with snowflakes on the tips of their tongues. We found a pond covered in ice and stoked a flame and called it good before the illuminati buried us alive. But oh my god you've got me now: stuttered heart, empty soul. God damn the way you're moving through my mind, the way your hair outlines the world. God bless the way you touch my thighs to warn me a storm is brewing beneath your ribs, that rain will soon follow. Rain drops upon your fa–– make you no one that I've ever known. I see the rock on which we fell. It's getting bigger everyday we spend away from here but I no longer want to pull it out or walk the roads above just to play it safe, we never really did. There's beauty in a cut, a broken body on a summer cot. Your skinny legs and ruddy skin, like knotted twine are twisted between my limbs. Fall into me. But oh my god you've got me now: stuttered heart, empty soul. God damn the way you're moving through my mind, the way your hair outlines the world. God bless the way you touch my thighs to warn me a storm is brewing beneath your ribs, that rain will soon follow. I've been thinking about letting you know I've been feeling this for some time and just forgot to let you know that the storm from which we hid has been hiding underneath my shirt. I swear it's you, not me. It's so hard for me to be here with you. With all the things that I've been keeping inside and I can't go on pretending that I'm not thinking about leaving you. We watch the sun rise from a knotted hill or field of old machines, I can't recall, but rusted metal spires reached towards the sky like preachers wives' contemplating death in bliss of an angry night. We fell further into each other there, so full of dusk as is the wont of the poorly assembled class, all stone hands and sinewy flesh. So worn from digging up the dead. Line us up. We're shaking free. Paint our sins. We're making waves in forgetful seas.