To Be Without

So bitingly ideal, he is:
notions fairly direct about his bend.
Soprano rough, yet comely failing his teeth, he sings
within structure, as he cradles my jolt of chin.

Convulsed amusement presently acute.
Such smirk angelic for in movement and phase.
Title not wary with hearts all avid,
force our cloth to silently raise.

Streams of hairlines and palms of ponds;
our lily-white bodies authors for ruin and taint.
Irises wild, frantic globes of hue aside the Moons.
Muscles now weak and terribly faint.

Raw are we nude, forearms do carry me far
into the days of midnight and its ghostly mouth.
Swallow what is left of self entirely whole
and never have I to be without.