I did not want the food. The blood on the floor was shot through with rough diamonds. Some of them were her name in the sky. Outside it was like a stone made of pure heroism plowed into rotten pumpkin, fairly obliterating the sinister visage inscribed therein. Later, I would wash the plates. They shone in the ruddy wine of these moments, like stars. Her names. Outside the floor was rough, like time inside our kiss. It never came. The sinister visage on the rotten messages. Blood in the verge inscribed it’s maps or damage nearly every time we moved. A game we couldn’t fathom like an arrangement of stones made of flow. The silver outline left where the ghosts of our lips passed through the blood in the sky. I did not want to fall. Away. Her name.