You open your wings, your mouth, your eyes. You open your hand and breathe. The string begins to vibrate. It shudders. And then...

As your hand begins its journey from the space flowing through the channels between it and my hot flustered skin, I see the rings in your eyes growing larger, the love pouring into hate and those same eyes, seconds before, pleading on the brink of insanity "no more".

And your hand completes its circle, your fingers flow like a river passing through my face like the soul of ghosts. The pain grows inside you and the center of the flower. Passion, a cannibal, a silent black moth, opens its wings and absorbs the moon and flies in our shadows.

And the cave opens for us, and you enter into the shadows of possession, and you scratch me with guilt. And the tips of your fingers spread their wings on my face. And still your blood flows and I want to devour your moth.

And your mouth opens and breathes and screams. And you want to destroy the flying moth of your hatred that fills your liquor with music.

Here it comes that hand. And on the inside I am smiling before it cracks my lip. Because I have smelled your "forget-me-not" hands stretched with petals. And my branches are bare and my tree stands before you and your hand comes. And I want to believe in that hand. And I am smiling because the blood in that hand makes the nights last forever.

Now come closer to these caves, they are yours. In their fires I smell your moth burning, it grows inside me. And I see the tired strength fading from your eyes. And I see your hand high in the air, falling, like your soul falling, like your pleasures on this earth dying, and it purges itself too against my face.

Here comes your hand and your feet and your teeth and your knives. And still I love you my terrible, terrible Medusa, my flower. And still I must have your moth. My beauty fades, my spirit shuddering in the shadows, but still I am addicted to your moth and my despair.

We tie ourselves together with hatred when the blood spills, when the wings open on your lips into the disease of this struggle. We tie ourselves together with the mystery of death and opium and your flowering poppy. Where is the knife? Where is the knife? Not in my worn-out broken heart.