Let’s count our steps with endearments. Honey. My love.
Let’s mix our gunpowder with rouge and foxglove seeds.
If marriage is a war for independence, I’ll find a feather
for my cap and shoot you from your horse. Darling.
If it’s a hunt, salt and cure me. If it’s a plague for two,
my dear, let’s quarantine ourselves in the cemetery wearing
aprons and snakeskin belts. Let’s disfigure each other
with praise. My beautiful. My fugitive. If monogamy
is a stakeout, Sweetheart, let’s spy on the beekeeper
who lactates honey. I’ll pull stingers from your chest
if you’ll clean the blood from under my nails. If romance
is a ballad, we are its authors and its victims and finished
in four minutes. Beloved, if your desire is the passage
you underlined in Song of Songs after our first kiss
and erased on our honeymoon, then dark am I, yet lovely.
Then you, my shepherd, my charioteer, turn and shoot.
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