Tigers. Mountains. Sometimes thoughtful. Sometimes nothing at all. Charcoal on your fingers. Smear it on my face. Make patterns on my torso and kiss me like you mean it. You with that small mouth of yours. You with those dirty fingers that move in slow motion. Rest them on my chin. Place them on my lips. Take me through the forest and lead me through the trees until you’re slipping down those tights on a blanket on the moors. Sink those fingers into the soil and show me a wonder. Show me what it means to be alive. Come close to me. Come closer still. Dance and dance some more. My hand on your face. My hand on your throat. There’s saxophone. There’s jazz. There are the straps of your bra being slipped over your shoulders, and then there are my teeth against the enamel of yours. Another catacomb. Another seed to be planted. Hieronymus Bosch. Lovebites. And just to think we could try so hard to be normal. And just to think we could try to be like everyone else but what is there but to keep moving in these hysterical circles of love knowing full well the demise that inevitably awaits us? We are the wheel. We are the message.