Breathe, love. Expand like a star.
I'm close, as silent as seeds in a row,
reaching for where you are.
Take my hand. Touch my arm.
On the wall, an angel? or a doubt
over time given form?
From our mouths, the kiss, the scythe.
Our child, Clayface, crawls the ceiling
in the shadows, unrecognized.
A 55 for Real Toads.