you're a heatstroke in my lap. you burn, you're a fire and you nestle yourself comfortably atop my femurs (shifting patellas) and the warmth of your satisfied grin crawls up my central nervous system and tickles the heart.
you're a heatstroke under my skin. solar radiation that i can't wear down i would love to put you out leave you behind in this bed of rocking waves and tender toes, but you're like the sun without a kill switch to erupt.
there's a scar at the right side of your face (the one that God had moulded so carefully) and just like i won't tell you about skin pigmentation and the difference between black and white, you won't tell me about fog-created ghosts and the darkness that clouds your head.
therefore, at night we lay folded into each other, hearts shaped out of seashells and meet equally at the setting of the sun we counted the stars of our minds as your fire consumed my eyes.
in the morning death is just another excuse for us not to let go, and sunlight peeled away at still closed eyelids. pupils narrow as i awake in an empty bed that looks so abject in the absence of your skin.
you're a heatstroke in my lap and you won't let go, you won't let go. feverishly, i thank the structurally formed mountains on your stomach and trace the shadows down the lines of your limbs. you went off into the distance saving souls of two from electric waves, bathing in gold and leaving me here.
you're a heatstroke in my lap (romantically, not erotically) before you leave you made sure to rub the soft spot of my earlobe as if saying 'elephant shoes'. before arising from a sleep so deep i re-trace your fingerprints and the bed sheepishly awoke and apologised on your behalf.
you're a heatstroke in my lap. you won't go out. you won't go out.
P.S. you're the giant, i'm the mouse and elephant shoes is just the coward way out.