These senses fail me. I don’t understand how. How can your senses fail you? Am I supposed to be dead then? Dead and buried, numb and breathless six feet under.

Am I buried under your weight of love?

But love is just a fist now. A fist closed and angry. A fist in denial and pain. A fist full of love wanting to run into a wall. A fist that wants to break the wall and watch its identity crumble into pieces. A fist that wants to embalm you in the love that makes it so heavy.

My senses fail me. Yet, isn’t it strange that I rely on my senses to ground me when I float to you? Did I just drink tea? How would I know? The aftertaste. It’s not you. It’s the tea, syrupy and bland.

Touch; tingles across my spine take morning walks. Tingles run along in pairs as the ground perspires and heaves at the warmth of your breath. Touch; your breath makes my skin fertile. The sun burns upon it to create life. Solar flares erupt in the distance and you let them pass through you, magnificent and untamed. You are the Northern Lights that rip through a dull gloomy sky. My senses fail me. You bring me back.

The smell of musk, the smell of a new you every waking hour. Your voice trembling and quivering, stretching across blankets and slithering by straight lines. Vapours of you and me coliding and dancing in the air, slipping through our noses and bursting out of our mouths in bouts of sighs. I can smell inevitability.

Sight; how many eyes do I have now? You glanced through and a thousand more uncurled over me. A thousand more and I could see the tragic ugliness of this world. A thousand more and I began to love it, all the tragedy, and the beauty that makes it inhabitable. How many more will you uncurl? How much more?

I can't hear anymore. My world is nothing more than a rhythm. I swim and surf through this rhythm, I know every curve, every wound, every single place where potholes are healing. I know when to jump over them. I know when to trip into them. I know you want me deaf. Truth is mute and I am deaf.

One day, one very fine day, all this won't matter. This invasion of my senses would be complete. This transition will be insignificant, and you will become the southern sun in its blinding glory. These senses would have failed me completely. And you, you will be all that remains.