[Mitch]

Porcelain.
How you smell like a wind in the womb.
Telling me "end it too soon".
Dripping and gloating and wading in sane.
Simply as you are.
Timber in the dark.
Dimming windy fire.
Floating and loathing and fading in sane.
Porcelain.
Sort of ascension but shy in its right.
Kindly inviting with smiles that cut like a knife.
Cardboard my spine.
Soggy diamonds.
Stone in my eyes.
Drinking and warning and sinking aloft.
Dreaming of you.
Yearning the slide.
Sipping the winter with windowless sight.
Drifting and rolling and lazing in sane.
Porcelain.