I sail a raft off the edge of a waterfall that rolls down my face because you got on a plane made of paper and flew into my eye. I jump off a ten story building into a heart-shaped swimming pool of blood which erupts from my chest every time I think of you drowning yourself in doubt. Static in the clouds rushes down from the sky and courses through my veins each time your vocal cords oscillate to scream at me because I finished your chocolate milkshake. Your skin is like a road of plastic melting in the heat of the candle in the light of which you read, in the dark, books the paper of which is made from a tree taller than the highest cloud in the sky. Your scent is like a mixture of cinnamon, crushed pine leaves and green-apple vodka poured into my nose and titrated against reason. Your lips taste like stars in the night’s black canvas of your infinite, chaotic nonsense which I deal with every day. Your hair is like a perfect arrangement of silk atoms spinning round and round like the helicopter blades I got caught in while trying to skydive into the metal concert you’re head-banging at.
I had an espresso today for the first time in my life. Who needs sleep anyway?