You call it vanilla, I call it ecstasy
Scooping up your whiteness with phalangic intensity
Drunk on the dark milk of wilted flowers, your teeth against my tongue
Dressed in time, bathing in infinity
We carry each other across aeons of absurdity
Our lights burn holes into our skin
Scorched and seeping, we hold on to darkness
We burn vanillin and gasp for air
Intoxicated by the fragrance of oblivion
If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash
Leonard Cohen