Sweet Nothings, Part 2

II
We are eyelashes lost drifting into tall grass.
We are a light bulb in the second before it burns out.
Objectivity is our native tongue, but
we translate touches into ideals and
ideals into projections. Garage-door open
the vault of your experience for me.
Do not hesitate to part your picket-fence teeth.
Hum a harmonious heartbreak with me into this backseat.
Though God will not answer us, we are not so alone.