I don’t ever want you to end, sweet song; this is the thought that keeps me up stomachfuturesick. We start fires, turning as if an oasis was the pit in our stomachs as we move. There are no animals here. I want to slip notes into your wailing walls. When my eyes rest upon this someday they will say this is where love blooms, in canvas canyons painted by a brush of the lips, drunk off of religious fervor. Nothing wicked this way deemed us fit for consumption (internal combustion kept our raw hides in deserts but the moon can wane so poetically on your thumbs). I want you to know what my soul feels like behind my clavicle, where it sits waiting for you. August is a fight club and I am counting prayer beads; say my name more softly with your hand on the small of my back/intertwined with mine/inside me/bursting forth into everything we both wanted. I live for days off of sparse words.