This spillage shall wash over me like acid. Counting pores on my skin. Winning fights. Melting away finger pressed depressions. Deepening bone deep hollowness. //caption// Acid. I sit cross legged on the front steps to the shrine. They think, I've given myself the benefit of doubt. I've confessed the deepest, innermost, innate desires that are considered sins and now I seek a sign of permission to pray. To pray for you. Again. In the light of the orange flames. In the absence of light under the greyish red sky. I shall pray, if I do, for you. For your lips fighting a war of their own through the majority of the slow dance on a battlefield, swollen. Swollen from the lavish caresses, the sloppy laziness. So, they see me waiting on the front steps. I haven't got any words to articulate a permission. And I have no lantern to light my shadow when I walk back. I hold on to your genuine smile and your teeth clanking against mine. The sound of bitterness spilling.
