The worth of my bones' emptiness, their pristine hunger for life.
Small swallows on the branches of my veins, further out,
I've painted them red;

This is the colour of coming to ends.

Where you will find yourself with two ropes in hand;
Tie me together again, watch the clockwork awaken.
I thirst to drink of your autumn eyes; wish to imagine their depth,
The same as mine.

Or are you less; man or sweet nothings?

Wilderness of fingertips, trails along tendons.
And all my beautifully sharp knives only a cupboard away,
When I sleep, and you are awake.