I’ve been waiting for a relocation of the membrane,
To stand against the impostors moon.
Every time we innervate, our voices seem so drained,
Cupped in a shell shaped like you.
Each one you instigate leads another shape against,
The face you lend yourself, the mask to play pretend.
We borrowed instincts from the animals,
They found this place absurd,
Stretched across skin, the sex that we had,
Was in silence, our voices still not heard.
So we take these hands, and replace them with fog,
Dreams are celestial in thought,
Euphoric seas are plentiful,
In the celluloid streams we had sought.
From visions of you, the touch is all but gone,
The sound has all but been heard.
The eyes that we link are subtle seeds of ink,
Beautiful but bruised and blurred.