Desire

The music streaming in your hair
fills me with rapture everlasting,
while to touch it would destroy me,
shatter me into an earthquake
leaving me in ruins torn apart,
and still I never can’t stop longing
for that devastating demolition
that can only transport me with glory
from a worm into a butterfly
with stronger wings than any eagle,
or at least so would they feel.
Embalm me in your wings, my angel,
and let me get lost and buried in your hair,
and I shall die content,
enjoying every moment of it
to extend that death’s desire
to a never-ending masochistic bliss.