we are awaiting symptoms

So blush at being mine, yet gently come
And place a dainty hand within my hold
Too delicate to crush it into warmth,
Save that blood mantling to thy cheek shall flow
Back to the fingers, though I press them not.
- Aleister Crowley, " White Stains"


i imagined myself in his bed, underneath him, everything but our bodies were still. everything was sweat and shadows on the wall. the cool sheets were soaked with whiskey and dreams.
you radiated walking through those hospital doors.