For a life, life. For all the nights of you. For the swing of dreams. Behind your bed I tended a cave, primitive, humid, prehistoric. You take everything with your eyes all of a sudden. You detain me as supposed dead. You come. You run Spread our scent together. It feeds on the skin of memory. Lazy pores of skin. They come in exercise of effort. Out of the air. Lazy pores bloomed on carnal fields. The threads of your skin. Woven from your neck. They tapestry brightly colored arabesques.

Sense, then ex-isto as a hypo/thesis.