Before she had a name,
she had sculpted her face
to not look quite the same
as the children who lay quiet,
their eyes sewn with lace
As a boy he was bald
his hair strung on his guitar
that he played for the stars
he followed as he roamed
his feet moving to the metrenomes
in his fingers
she molded her brain
from her dead mother's clay
covered in ink blot stains
that form pictures of all she thinks
for her to display
he plays the music he loves
and he loves all that he hears
his brain works through his ears,
that transmit radio waves
and send them coursing through the veins
of his soul
They met in a house of tin
and she painted his skin
while he taught her a hymn
they don't sing in church
and he showed her the pencil in this throat,
and she took it and drew a boat,
that they sailed across the moat
of the castle they both knew was home
And now his music fills the walls
and her art hangs in bathroom stalls
and they love doing anything at all
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