Oh, phoenix boy.
Your story is fuelled by smoke and words,
feasting on dehydrated love.
Stolen gasps sprout from your spine
stretched to the rings of Saturn.
He wears his skin all back to front.
Oh, sparrow girl.
Your story is awkwardly stitched together,
stewing in sordid thoughts.
You are violent serenity in a wisp of a girl
dancing through the nighttime sea.
She wears her bones all inside out
Buried beneath her
sparrow skin and
his phoenix flames it lies.
Woven from grains of sand,
These bruises are constellations.
Delighted in catatonic embrace.
So the phoenix boy
and the sparrow girl.
They drink the sun from the
very fingertips of giants.
Plucking the dirt from November pores.
Together they wait.