the curve of the shoulder,

bent, straight or slouched,

carries weights of stories that are painted with colors,

that does not exist in the visible spectrum of our kaleidoscopic eyes.

Do not underestimate the strength of sinew and bone,

the arch of the spine,

and the loudness of our minds.

Do my pheromones and bursting dopamine matter,

or my abstract painting neurons?

chasing after dreams that are not materalistic,

trying to make it realistic,

is that what being human is about?

Relationships do not have blood platelets or lymphocytes,

just like our minds which do not have a temporary exit,

to patch up the patches between the shuddering tectonic plates between our eternities.

Because Lies that tumble and froth over your lips,

propelled by our sharpened tongues,

they  all vanquish in the end anyways,

trodden beneath snake skinned feat,

finally disappearing like dry ice in magma.

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