I want to meet a person.
Someone who has cut loose their puppet strings
using the blades along their fingers; a weapon
gained from a history of wrapping skin with
beasts in a masquerade.
Someone with an expensive heart
enriched by a passion that ripples into their voice-
a sound that will never harbor a vestige of fatigue
for what they love to be consumed by,
for what they love to consume,
for what they love.
Someone that sticks wholesomely to the apertures in my nest of a mind,
perching carefully so as to not form creases
along the tunnels of emotional mazes, dream spewing chimneys,
and coffins nailing shut the haunted fragments of my psyche.
And if this person were to detach I would be left with a stench
that reminds me of the color of their wings,
the places they took us,
and the jealous wonder of the skies they now enchant.
I want to meet that person;
I want to be that person.