This is... Romantasy
Laying on top of sheets, like witch piled sticks.
Limbs placed around ritualistically.
Bound like the oath given by a lover's samurai.
A place of allegory on which to slay the king.
Where dragons are known to dive,
hunting on the wing.
Needle over vinyl on brushed stereo HiFi.
RPM forty-five: "I'm straight I'm queer I'm bi."
There's no such thing as committing original sin.
It's all been done before.
Over ankles, wrists, elongating spills over the floor,
Winter sun runs shadows like cats.
Mint winter air pinking skin in natural habitats.
Like seasons, love is cyclical.
"Love the sinner not the sin", as if they're not reciprocal.
I love you both.
Sinners sinning.
Don't panic, not everything's satanic.
Like walking with a collar doesn't make you a dog.
Or a religious man.
Operating in a society of binary low-key aggression.
Where the weather is important.
Extreme conformation is aspiration.
Fucking... being a man's man is an occupation.
We suspend our belief system that this is living.
To run fingers over the frame of mass delusion.
That this is a scene to be seen in.
That we have armour that is glistening.
So we tie ourselves in sheets and knot the linen.
To be rid of sports leisure fashion.
From feeling these people are Martian.
From being afraid of nothing.
To lay sticky skin to sticky skin.
You and you and me and me.
Sinners Sinning.
