Plastered against stars,
limbs
spread, rotating circles

spark us
up
into the neon sky, cycling,

until I pin you
down
onto my turntable

my hair swirls
playing
figure eights

on your chest,
heaving
trails of liquid love

make new constellations
that dot
our ceiling

while drops drench silk
thighs
in Sistine chapel sighs,

theology captured in a
slaughter
of feelings

aching for nothing
less
than display

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