hearing her voice again,
an echo, a stain,
out from the depths of a sensual carnage.
She wrecks me with her cadence,
(tone & pace)
the lyrical grace of her tongue,
the memory of what it did to you,
what she did, under cover of night,
cover of white sheets, so pristine,
in the same bed we shared years later,
when the wrinkle of time,
unwinds in my chest,
unravels from under me,
as tendrils, pushing me up,
pulling me under.
Pushing me up, pulling me down to you,
soft child of the tides,
releasing poison from her heart,
your cleanliness, makes me crave
no other sorrow.
Sleeping in a haunted bed, in a room full of ghosts,
I choke on your love for me.
“Dead to me, dead to me.
I could never be free of you,
without having to lose you.”
Extinguish a cigarette on her tongue,
watch her in motion under the light,
vinyl hands, overlapping
skip and repeat, skip and repeat.
Her voice a drop of rain
in the desert heat,
the slow flow of euphoria,
the wreckless beauty of the ones
who left me in their seductive shadows,
finger inside of you, tongue in your mouth, synchronized
with the needle’s rhythm.
Is it possible I feel nothing because I’ve built a tolerance to heaven?
The next kiss or word could be a fatal overdose.
The sunflowers push up
from under your bed,
covering us in a yellow sea.
She stands over us naked,
We all have our versions of paradise.
You are mine.
You are mine
You are mine.