My God is the cherry on your cigarette and I am to be breathed in. Let me spiral away and dissolve into aether. Burn my forearms. Burn my lips. Your touch ran cold from thigh to thigh and I don't know which way you lie coiled up under the covers never to strike or whether you're hiding from me or yourself and I don't care as long as I'm at home in your pink virgin lungs. One red spark in ash is my God born new between thigh and thigh.