In the forest, I like you like that without anesthesia.

He breaks her waves on all his edges.

Writers talk to ghosts.

Face in the Sun with the dark circles of beautiful nights the mouths of tigers.

Under the Sun of the night. The Sun in winter is addictive. And at night like it is. To be in the forest and wait for a rain of sighs.

Tongues paired in the forest.

The poetry of painted collarbones and scratched bleeding knees.

Music repairs us when it breaks the silence.

He turns her over and writes.

He loves her for a reason and its not rational.