Your tongue slides back and forth across the roof of my mouth. I can taste who you had for dinner. I don’t think I’ll ever kiss like that again: Closed mouth with little interaction, shoulders too scared to touch. Let our hips be appalled of one another as our favored parts lay waste to future generations. I would gladly poison my young for a moment’s instinctive pleasure. We were given only the same courtesy, so let us extend only the finest of ourselves ahead. My finest intentions of how this world should be, gladly become themselves to horrid branch-lings that grow and stretch upward but soon feel weak and fall to ash. We should be so lucky. To find ourselves nothing but inanimate is the only hope I have left. Please send me a message from heaven, I would very much like to hear about the life I will never have.