I will jump at the throat of love and sink my teeth in deep. I will crash you against the Universe until you merge with it and all I will see in the sky will be you and you and you: every constellation the extension of a limb. I will use blunt force and coffee to keep you in bed, and pin your lungs to the ceiling so your ribs can rise and rise again so my sun can breathe and breathe again. I will boil down the hours between us and drink them on a sullen morning soaked with rain: the sweat that rolls off your back in the night, be it nightmares or my thighs - and how different are they really? - that make it pour. I will drag you out by your tongue and my knees will follow until they bleed. It will be destruction. It will be Ragnarok. And it will be beautiful. I see the end of us flicker through the ribbons you are cut in by poorly shut blinds and passing cars’ lights like a carrousel or a flip book. You dizzy me most when you lie still, like you are now, and that must be part of the reason why I want to move you. I will do nothing gently, no deity was ever gentle in creating, in destroying. I will push you and pull you until I can stand still and balance on the hours spent screaming and throwing plates into collarbones and at the edges of my hips. I will paint ourselves new lives with the blood that is cut loose from my lips by teeth that are not yours. When I at last, tear all of the stars out of my sky and hand you back your skin I will not cry. I will stand in the vast blackness of an empty galaxy after we have sunk and smile at the contrast. We will have been so grand for so long I will find solace in being small in someone else’s hands. I will not let this love die slowly and suffering, I will not bind needles to my fingers and gently caress you until you are raw and open and my kiss can sow nothing but salt. I will lay this love on the train tracks. I will do nothing gently. I have not loved you gently, I will not leave you gently. I am a creator. I will end things just so I know that they can begin again.
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