Alchemisland

Such shoving energy her look throws

She gets to take the lift alone whenever she goes.

She does not rush. Not to here, not to home. Flows

Liffeylike. Her wake’s a rose tide

My nose tight

Her scent ladylike. An oily rain, sideways

For lens her tights

Lend me your elements and I will make of you

Eminent spells.

The sky after that spell

(You only find it in a wanker’s poem, that petrichor smell)

Was rizla packet red, which shepherd it delighted fuck knows.

She will wake soon, the sun hopes.