Drift yourself closer to the cliff, if you must. I'd love to let it rain to wipe the scars clean from you. These eyes see you wander, linger on the edge, taking the pledge to a certain death. A heart will stop, all rhythms cease with the flow of a river entering a lake. Exit yourself over the edge, if you cannot fly. One direction to decline, the other to see a flood. These eyes are crude paintbrushes painting this face with scenery you do not wish to see. Forward, to be the grain, infinite, in lost specks. What bone of yours will be unguarded, for the kiss? I'd love to collect your dust, your stars in the sky.