Marco DiLeonardo Art

That strange way the moon misses the white weak winter sun. To drive my forehead into your cheek to end this atrocious lack of focus. Grasping fistfuls of forever flowing black cascading hair. Single magic braid to match the tattoo. Fingertips melting into my nervous system. Palm your scalp and read it inside my chamber. The magnetism to crush you under the funeral door. Feed the growing nostalgia and empty the beast.