feels wrong, like it should be forbidden. no roses, just thorns. a harp vibrating at some dissonant chord, inside an abandoned castle, behind locked doors inside locked doors. a feast, left untouched. we left in a hurry. an ache I nurse while staring out the airplane window of my life, a purple bruise I keep covered, and press only while alone, with pleasure, and traces of cyanide guilt even when my love lays sleeping beside me. my life feels the sudden rush of vertigo, the urge to throw itself off a cliff, into your arms— to risk whatever the landing will bring: absolute grief and devouring passion. gambling away an entire reality, the peaceful fortress of my life, daring you to disappoint me. but even sweet pain, even your phantoms bring me pleasure. my mind climbs atop ridges, opens cupboards, unspools fantasy lives in them, with a little salted shame. somewhere, elsewhere, we continue to dance. like breaking open a vein. where do I bleed, and where do you begin. I wait in the bathtub alone. I wait to wake up from this hallucinatory dream. I bury you in the dark. I visit you only after sleep.