In the beginning you were made from God's dust. he swept you into a pile of ash and breathed gold into your being, lifting you into gardens where you watched the world - you saw and you understood.

Entire planets burned to leave the hue in your eyes, and yet nothing could compare to her cadaverous touches in Sunday morning downpours, kisses from the girl who unravels your pieces one by one and makes you feel

human. There is a strange beauty in being chained to the earth's skeleton, to walk up and down its spine for no longer than a millisecond but with her hand in yours you spin eternities. You want to kiss every star embedded in her collarbones and give her the constellations you used to own, crowning her every breath as a work of art and masking

millennia of a shapeless sickly solitude in something they call togetherness, washing yourself in the waves of hope he brings to your ever ageing skin. The passing of time is a new concept to you - and she is still cracking watches with touches that feel more like heaven than God's gardens ever did.