The Bellows

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The soft shrill is drowning in us.
The soft shrill is drowning in us.
The soft shrill is drowning in us and we're
lost in the Wake.

This is an ode to Us. An ode to our summer
and to our spring; the spring in your step and
the springs in my mattress against silk-skinned water-walls. It's an
ode to our beginning, an ode to our end. It's my
thinning insecurities, your sensible heaves and
our battling, mixing, scorching highs.

The soft thrill is losing balance.
The soft thrill is losing balance.
The soft thrill is losing balance and we're
twisting in uncomfortable lengths.

You're the beast in my bare breast chasing
tides and Winter's low backbone. This
is more than an ode to Us. It's an ode to the
cottage, a snake in high grass and
you are gravity underwater. Beneath the
heat, beneath the bellowing me,
you are the gravity without balance, without
oxygen,
without without without.

I am breathing with you.
I am breathing with you.
I am breathing with you and you, me.

This is an ode to an end without losing; an ode to
everything the Light touches in my head, in my
bed, an ode to everything against the bend.

(This one's for you)





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