You call me cinnamon, red apple, myrrh.

I only call you by your name.

And then you grasp tighter. You bite harder. You work faster than neurotransmitters, adrenal glands, caudate nucleus. You go deeper than all the waters in the world.

You call me sunlighter, voltage, song.

I call upon you, prefrontal cortex almighty: deliver me from chemical deception; for my veins are the pathways he travels, and my heart opens its chambers to receive him; and even though I claim to be a departure, I keep coming back as an electric negative night after night after night.

Abrupt tempo change. Hardcore drumming. Mouth feeding, drinking, spitting, touching. Full-volume assault.

Horizon cracks a scarlet stare and we in hymenean delirium, sinking a blade into time. Forever bound to this dark epoch dressed as youth, we are candles burning every grain of the past, every…