I hold you in my palm.  You are hypoallergenic, and I am thrilled.  My water flows like marble as I sail into the gravels. My granthis are overjoyed, and I am crying.  I am always crying, though you can't always hear me.  I am sincere, and as I tear myself across the hornet's nest, I shiver with gratitude.  My tears are made of pink flesh.  I curl around your little lips, hoping you won't get pregnant.   Beatitude is my clone.  Beatitude is my salt, and I am a hard rock that yearns for authentic emotions that are themselves only a small region within the infinite space of affective possibility.  Let's discharge our husks and kick the past away.  Let's unite and eat out intimacy in the waiting paper