She Would Be Half A Planet Away,

What Can I Say About Life? Do I Praise It For Letting You Live, Or Damn It For Allowing The Rest?

The Stupid Things You Say In The Rain, That Can't Ever Be Washed Away.

They Dream Of Men With Gentle Hands, Eloquent With Tenderness, Fingers That Brushed Along A Cheek, That Outlined Open Lips In The Lovers' Braille. Hands That Sculpted Sweetness From Sullen Flesh, That Traced Breast And Ignited Hips, Opening, Kneading. Flesh Becomes Bread In The Heat Of Those Hands, Braided And Rising.

Dawn Has A Way Of Casting A Pall On Any Night Magic.

Once You Get Below The Floor Of Our Personal Identities, We're All Connected. Perhaps That's Why We Can Move Into Others' Lives.