Something
weaves through the innards.
Not a thought, perhaps.
But maybe. And then
the glistening in your eyes,
you moving your hands
in just the right way…
We stain our skins
in the crimson light that washed over…
Burned by grace,
but still graceless and seething,
rough around the edges.
You moving your hands…
Your mouth around mine…
And the light between us,
whispering.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 