Pastel outcrops
dusted in macabre glow

and the lute
of a diabolical bird—

you were born
in a lascivious position

a consequence of your creation,
the original state of matter

and you’re my punishment
for lust and gluttony.

My kisses cause strawberries
to rise from your body

as light penetrates your pigment,
blending affections.

We’re attracted to the idea
of infinity—

the last rays of the sun,
a lurid rift

accentuated by the edge
of night’s profane—

a gilded chandelier,
irredeemably risen.