Can you kiss me like a lightbulb? I leave lights on absentmindedly now, pacing to prepare for what ambition feels like. Will these knuckles pull us into the light upon entrance or is wishful optimism too much like whitewashing the reality I reflected in your retinas? Criticism to castration has left me more numb than most but it has let this new flesh erupt under your prints. We are Mondays, like clockwork and I wait to be reborn under you again. Has the earth ever smelled the same? Everything is sensed newly, like everything for naught was woven into stomach drops with the weight of how you say my name. With every hurt from your past leaving these lines on my face, I am a card-carrying holy heathen lost in your love unraveled before me. I revel in these management complaints I spurt on tiny slips of paper under your door; I want to pass them to the boys who left you like this with a tip, that they do everything exactly the same in a rendition more controlled because though I’d have you any way when allowed this particular you is so beautiful to me.