Moments in dimmed lights and muffled conversations eat me up as I stare through the ceiling, onto the galaxies.
I run my fingers across chapped lips [an urge to taste]. Awkward glances over silent records and unspoken cravings.
I look at you with eyes filled with famine, a drought waiting for a single drop of rain. I look at you with a melody in my head of manners and how to put them at ease. You my dear are a work of art in progress, and I hold the brush, dipped in black, ready to ruin you.