I've been marinated by all of this, easy to chew but still hard to swallow. Is there still a trace of silver inside the [bad word] cumulus above? And it fits that I pretend the ceiling is your face, in anticipation of my next move. The traces of night's spackle shimmer when you [bad word] your hair away. Let it engulf me in its event horizon. You are the perfect that I wouldn't allow myself to see. An angel with the widest wings who loved the devil inside of me.