At the pace of rapture,
she becomes a vague word
echoing faintly on my tastebuds -
a conceptualization of logic
that holds little weight
in our realm of material offerings.
Inside out,
the flesh is raw but not rotten;
may I caress your wounds tonight?
May I take a dip in your spinal fluids
and dilate those pupils
with my thousand pound frame?
May I demonstrate
that we are simply dopplegangers
moving in quasi-perfect unison?
Keeping each other warm
with cold shoulders,
what an exhausting,
fascinating game we play.
A thick musk perpetrates
quiet murder on the fresh air;
I smell hints of inspiration
and temporary heart break -
nothing an updated pair
of perverted hands
hasn\'t stitched up before.
Stick \'em up!
This is the final time
I\'m robbing your heart.
I\'ve grown wings
so as not to collide
with the sacred ground
that turns freewheeling lust
into tepid exclusivity.
You can\'t eat me,
we were vehement lovers
in the life lived before ours...
perhaps we were Shakespeare?
Our time invested
deconstructing reality
is prepossessing -
Ill-defined
sentences from a boy
missing half his soul;
a true hoarder of diamonds.