Hey A.X.L., I relentlessly desire cotton candy lollipops. Wood nymphs sprinkle your path with rose petals while you dance and prowl in the sequined moonlight with leftover cupcake sprinkles. Entranced by the sweet harmony of your lips, I gaze beyond reason to find the oasis of your brilliant soul. The skin I shed is a perfume that makes water bubbles so terribly clear to me. The music that flows from your instruments overwhelms me with creativity. Your essence is equal to the beauty of a galaxy. Your layers of absinthe and torsion form concretions of hyper-alimentation. Transistors bridge where your vanity would never go. The expanse of your beauty is a void no universe could ever fill. If I could have just one wish, it would be to wake up to your songs in the morning. A starfish's lifelong hallucinations of gelatin pools and of actuaries floating upon the foam and reciprocal ohm. You turn the atmosphere ablaze with currents of sweet ethylene when you smile. So charmingly silky, your skin is like a teardrop on a popsickle.
