To feel the brush of your fingertips
Against my breaking skin
As the sun caresses the hill outside
Is the most beautiful thing I can imagine.

But imagination is cruel.
It rips reality and fantasy apart
Into two separate entities:
Into life and death.

So much so that I can’t distinguish
Between the truth and the lies.

But I so desire to know
The lines and bumps and cracks
Of your skin in the early morning;
When the sun caresses the hill outside,
And it’s the most beautiful thing I know.