your neck smells like candy.
It is not of candy essence. Perhaps it has a raspberry and a sun ray poaching in the egg water.
Not yet boiling bubbles, but he's waiting at the stove.
It is at the pinnacle of the spine, resting.
Clean and deep and different in the corners,
they are always differentiating from the rest, the crevices of the subdued angles,
and the dolls of his spine hopping into each other.
But now they are resting.
It is a barely touched place on his body.
Under layers of frost and boards of birch,
and in the beckoning scents of the hallways between the shower and the bedroom.
You have captured me forever.
I am now yours in almost every way.