They are the blind and blissful, warm homes warm lovers—
Happiness comes free like a natural spring, clear and sweet, smooth over cold clay
In bedrooms lit with vanilla wax and wicks, they fornicate like skeletons. All the empty beauty rattling between their bones.
A life to live blanketed in a fungal mist. A life to live imagining each day is a gift.
A sickness or blessing, there is none to be had for me.