you are not allowed to come to me until you are bare even of skin.
i believed in the sound of your voice, not knowing at first it
was only an echo. so many things are just copies of copies said
long ago, the originality of the words lost in their replicated
syllables: i love you, i love you. or worse still, i would die for you.
it is easy for you to say these things when i am digging my nails
into the exposed nerves of your body. i just wanted to make you
come up with something new. your heart looks like everybody else’s.
your organs boring and your blood always the same color. i found
your veins of gold and melted them down to make a pendulum
that swings over two words reflected in red candlelight.
but neither of them are original.