your name is an elixir, a panacea, a placebo for my lesions. wait for it, the call. beckoning bayonet from the other side of the forge. it will come if sequestered. I desire to history you, plump you up with my multiple lips and tongues, ejaculate your scented fog so lost in humidity. isolate your kiss. one more time. what I like to hear is the dripping, warm concoction flowing south. the squeaking weathervane turning, collapsing. why I can't say it. giving way to the wind. as soft as drive.