A bad thing

I would love to spin-dive
to San Francisco, London,
Paris (as a pair)

rather,

then just lay,
tied to the bed here with you.

Or the bad thing
lapping at my lips, waves
like salivation, I

would love
to have you
become my

salvation.

Or my starvation.
My migration

soul across soul (perhaps)
I would love to understand you,
you say that that is no excuse

to be
as I see - it's alright
to exalt myself, pin
myself up to you, wear
my mind like a colorful accessory.

You're not necessary.

You're not anything to me (just
an insult, perplexed prologue whoring
herself for an epilogue that's chicken
scratched on the walls (she can't
read it) just fault, salt, over my shoulder
to ward off the bad luck)

you're nothing to me, but you still say that that is no excuse.