I’ll tell you a secret; the plunging kind that will comb your breath until you have none.
In your eye is an obsidian omicron, is the blackest o. The turn of a century en pointe; and time is a curvaceous revolution, a system of degrees that backslides to genesis forever. Winter shows me Sapphic onanism: I tup oneiromancy until paroxysm; a sacristan pours virga from the clouds, and I turn away from you.
In my chimera, you are a girl (you are not really a girl); and I am a boy (I am not really a boy). The boy I’ve choosen to be is you. I go to the bathroom and find a mirror. My lips make a pink omicron. I have sex (the “gender” kind, the “male” and “female” kind) all over my lips. I make love to a timeless hoop of phylum and finally understand why Narcissus loved onanism so.
I know it’s very dangerous what I’m doing, and that people have drowned this way; but it’s very satisfying, this sliding back to genesis with the skin of my ilk pressed against yours.