He who wears the paper crown is king of the crackle. Unproven.

Brandy eyes see undressed lies in bed with contrived laughter. Soberly and dripping wet.

Reconfigured finger pops the luck. Guns drawn before Dawn has broken, down baby, damned lady, seated upside out, beltless, love bulging, bursting, with tenderness, lust and found in distinguished denial.

Choice?

The one you use when you say everything in the noise of silence.

Crackled grief and textured tears, too salty for truth, takes you hard and easy when you cry below the waist…ed words of indifference.

Yours.

The one I use when I am merely your reflection without my beating heart.