Soft words, and hands cut from the glass, melted on the sand. Wallow, we are lifted to find each other's eyes even in the rush of stars. Bloodbaths, fights that do not quit their place for eyes, cannot fit. Alone, to shower with the bucket, the rope tied at our feet. Collection, a slow dance in it, while your beauty with wings never flits. You cry while the moon covers an aching sun, cannot leave. And with grief the lover's yore, water will run, with great eyes to adore. We have run, across all the mingling light, carving sentences from our sight Speaking more than our lips, than our hands, in each teardrop tossed. When frost wilts the last flower, the final petal - Will love remain the answer? Nestled in, buried throughout the grains gathered in gravity. Pull down, run with sharp glances - to cut the cloth, radiant to your stare, to ours, sharp and decadent.