Impossible to as much as grasp
I felt your hand – oh so memorably manicured
Pure to a real point of being almost juxtaposed
I suppose you’ve left a million other men just like me in equal search
Our unobtainable needle in the dark
Stark and delicious
Contemporary wits, one such pit far too deep
But we prepare ourselves to dive on in headfirst nonetheless
I can feel the astounding impression you make
Taking everything, everybody, asunder
We plunder while you get to finally choke the sun that lies above all of our heads
Or am I lying, are you, in fact, dead!?