Apple Tree

I am sick again
Settled into a much stranger skin
Through these addled eyes and murdered midnights
All of the umbras entwined, they’re sickles in my spine
I am with you still
The skeleton of a faith we can’t kill
When you say you will, say you will

Every night lets some magic in
As the moon marauds the salt on your skin
Every night, smells like cinnamon
As the moon marauds the salt on your skin

I can see it now
Withering from an ardor avowed
Fear as manifold, sentiment sold
'Cause I am sick again
The fever pitch of a dream that won’t end
Cold as apple white, sweet as starlight