I think this colour fits you,
though you'd not be seen dead
in such a hue; it might bring
some life to those pock-mark,
washout cheeks. Crimson

like your voice, I hide
behind my hair and bind
my wrists with black lace;
all the better to sever
should I change my mind.

Your filtered beats escape
from under that dark curtain
and beneath the heels of boots
to end the world with. Timeless,

making you taller, the power
in that working jaw is un-
stoppable. With silenced
curses in your ears you

testify your difference, in-
difference to this tread-mill-train-track
lifestyle ['specially in those boots]

you're a vessel of harder rock
bigger holes,
painted nails

and the stubble that frames
the lips I'd kill to bite.