It is a dreadful feeling—the night—a tinfoil sheet that glistens on the skin, listens to the pucker of searing crimson shisha coals—salvation—It is dreadfully cold, dreadfully bitter, here. And I run the heat through my fingers as I sit without a touch. Inspire. Inspire, and let it be—the saccharine rush of honeyed smokes, drenched in the thump-thumping patter of Jack Johnson—I need this old train to break down. Expire. Expire, and feel the swelter sand the throat in that dreadful hoar-night. And I sit and think—just think—

When I behold your being, I am bereft of breath, like the gadfly flittering on a breeze unawares and dancing like a mad and wanting, wanton soul. I forget the doubts I am wont to cling to—anything for your eyes to hold me—as I sit atop a ladder in a dimly lit corridor, helplessly dangling—in vain of everything I deny as a false hope—but hope nonetheless, and saccharine like honeyed smokes. That is what you are.