Quick. Rolling.

When we go rolling along the grass, the pollen in our eyes, I grab your hand and you become the Sima Martel of my being. It is a depression on the surface of Earth, a sink-hole of not-quite-there uncomfortable romance, where you leave me neck-deep in sweetness and struggling light. As my fingers slip through the wet cracks of your muddied thoughts, I decide that I will give up this town in the only way I know how.

The words, falling from your crooked mouth, become hazed alphabets, dancing beneath my eyes, and all I see is you. The pores on your skin, gasping for air, begging for closure the way my soul begs the same of you. What waste do I live with, that I live to hope that you may deign to truly love me. For when you did once, I chose to let the Sun shine on me and chase the Blackened away.

And when I begin to drown, submerged in the dark tow of your uncertain under-currents, there is your nuqu, your fading twilight shadow; go, drowning fast, the momentum building like a crow in an airplane, ripples beyond ripples of this world.

Quick. Rolling. You leave presents at my door: a talking dog, cat and a bunny.

I steal a kiss when you turn to me, because I don’t give a damn anymore. I steal a kiss because it is the first and only that I will, because the bowling pins of the Eternal have come for me.

Quick. Rolling. Out of all that is Nameless.

I steal kisses.