Of centrefolds and fallen stars

Sneak a peek in heaven.

That's what it is. Spotlight, flashes and your arm around my waist. The right to have everything I want, to live in a dream. To crawl taller than you, you the one that makes me much bigger of a star.

But I'm just bare, weightless and afraid, I fear. On my way back to you, I tried to say. To make you stay. But it's the dreaded XXI, and still not a single sign that you might finally be mine, up there as you are, hunting stars high and low, only tied to me by a silver lining.

Several hours later into the sleepy hollow, wondering how you could let me go, how I could do you the same. Never thought I'd feel so ashamed. You come to me, run your claws over my skin -scales- and say you give up on your centrefolds, no one's as good as a good 'the one'. Come to me, make me high. Knees buckle and I'm all over the bedspread, a fucking mess, heart and soul.

You make such a mess of me.

And I can't tear you from the ceiling, can't bring you back to me. I'd like to staple you to me, put a bit of you in me, and me in you, yin and yang, black and white molding into each other. Just like you are inked deep inside of me.

But you don't let me sleep. You don't let me dream, and never come to me when I'm awake. Just like booze, you have this bitter taste about you, mingled with K and chocolate icing. Come on, give me a run for your money, try to beat me, try. This fucked up thing we have, screwing -skewering- my points of view, you can't find a better match.

So be...be mine. Forever, just be mine. And remember that our bond can take it.


Happy birthday, sneaky asshole.