「Moirai」

Henceforth, my birth date has a memory,
stuck to a drawer of ribs like paper-mache.
I'll open it up each year,
to let the little sparks of every pain
burn.

A distant morning, as if time did not exist,
the time between "I'm sorry," and "Goodbye".
An artificial light illuminates your bones,
saturates your hair,
and dies in your eyes.

Headshot.
What a crude name
for something sensuous
urgent
erotic.
Exchanging the smoky secrets in our lungs between lips that scarcely touch,
a sudden dream as the gravity hits.

「What if I'm using you?」

It feels like I've been drugged.
Giggling, unable to resist you all over me.
Taking everything and greedily asking for more,
a child at a candy store.
Blinded by black and white inside my eyes,
while beyond lies a distortion beyond my will to understand.

「Do you want one right here?」

Yes, please.
I want to see that immoral expression,
darkened by the thirst for sin in that black, black heart,
unable to resist sating every cruel thought and desire that submerges your voice.
I want to see the worst face you have,
and love it maddeningly,
the way my heart pounds too hard in my chest,
practically begging to be cut out.

「No, no holding hands.」

Ah.
An exhalation, tendrils of smoke caressing my lips
as another bit of my secrets whisper themselves to the still air.
I hate you the most, mein liebling.