Your back curves like a creeping vine
With the answers in the fluid in the stem of the spine
In the black-coffee bowl of your eye
Why do you overestimate the size of the lie?

I've seen
The dangers of
Your rising sign
But I swear
Id like
To drink the fuel straight from your lighter
It’s all inside the wrist, it’s
All inside the way you time it
I resent the way you make me like myself

My nerves jump
Like a boiling pan
Like a skillet full of oil spits,
Rattling on the burner
When I stumble onto the thought
Of the match you lit and dropped and set the
Dial to slow yearn

Can I spell it out?
Should i spell it out?