Coccinella

i've been marinated by all of this, easy to chew but still hard to swallow.
is there still a trace of silver inside the crushing cumulus above?
and it fits that i pretend the ceiling is your face, in anticipation of my next move.
the traces of night's spackle shimmer when you brush your hair away.
let it engulf me in its event horizon.
you are the perfect that i wouldn't allow myself to see.
an angel with the widest wings who loved the devil inside of me.