If we agreed on no strings dear, then you must know at this point that I am a marionette. I'm spinning faster on a stage, drunk-spun-dizzy and my threads are tangled, but I have faith that your gnarled and twisted hands will untangle me as you always do and we will drink this wine and whine about the summer stars and how you can never find any that shoot across your sky.

I am all black and dappled with points of twinkling white, the same twinkle you find in my eye when you're holding me above you and we're going down, down, down, into that rabbit hole filled with writing on the walls – "What if we could." – splayed out on the rocks, and we watch as the unnatural tides dissipate these hidden messages I pretend I didn't leave for you in our hiding place.

My fingers trickle out strained languages across your skin and promise that I will always be your shooting star, but I'm half-drunk and forget how to speak in the long lost language of body, so it comes out something garbled like, "Don't touch me there," or perhaps you were never trained in the celestial art of prose.

Either way, if you're going to continue treating me like a whore, it would be easier if you stopped kissing my lips.