til death do you part

The brushing of hands is not sweet and smooth; it is a rough reminder of skin and of the nature

of skin, the great barrier organ

To love is to crawl under skin and scratch at the bone

To love is to wear away the muscle and use the veins as puppet strings

a marionette of sweet talking slickness

and to love is to burrow in the great warmth of thick metallic blood.

to prod the brain and see what’s inside

to love is to become an organ, necessary and vital til death do you part

love

is

removing the skin and becoming the heart