(Untitled)

Your hair smells of vinegar
he chimes in childish play
hoping for temporary agony
a microcosm of human insanity

Your eyes are too round
he becomes melancholy
falling deep inside
his vision of vanity

Skin is meant to be bronze
not a sick silver lining
as the clouds furrow above
meeting between his eyes

Legs should not end
he sees in his mind
the crashing waves
humming lullabies

She has not responded yet
waiting for the babble to rest
tongue wandering across the salty trails
as his back meets her nails