As we ride kites into the sunset
On bleeding fingertips around the string,
Running the ins and outs of our verbal textures,
Until there is no more life to waste on.
There is a neon bar inside the topology
Of the flight, leading all wingless lovers
To make believe well-adjusted, invisible
Hugs and torching gazes into the psychology
Of being unseen.
Still, if I can hardly ever hold you inside
The spelling intricacy of me,
How can I breathe breathless into the air of you?