Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown

You— set a virus in my skin. I am sienna and gold, and lavender and brass. I am the fragrance on the back of your neck, etched into a synthetic tattoo sighing our mathematical equation. You and I are not ellipsoidal. Erase the surface area. Shade over my scent with the syrup of her cordovan painted perfume. I was never there. It’s better this way.

I remember when the dusk was maliciously hushed, (unstirred, like my own encounter with mortality) and you would call upon me to set your heart aflame. The chronologically instructing (disparaging) (shifting) space around us would overturn, almost, as you would begin to move backwards unto me. It would set in sequence the wicked beginning, a lawsuit of lovers and collaboration of heretical swindling villains dressed in three-tier lamb and velvet ashed fay. Searing rocket kisses and gritty sweat-fashioned fingerprints would dirty every rolling recollection, metallic and stinging, oh the itch .

I remember how then, then, then, I would respond so hesitantly, until you would renounce my every negative vocabulary. I remember the shape of your skin, as you’d refrain from your conscience, arcing away from everything you knew.

But me.

But this.

But what we were.

I realize now I should not have been your late-night insomnia-induced anodyne, your daylight coffee proxy. I let us both down, with my indecision, and inability to call upon the naught. Perhaps I craved to be your plastic rose ragdoll, lilac and murmuring in your hands. Your rumouring coquette, seduced by the probability of capture. Oh what volume, the flirt it speaks, crashing into synaptic reflexes.

I refuse to trace back my steps.

This doesn’t mean anything you think it means.