Migration to another
Higher on the food chain.
O Torturous soul
I hear you, “...this has got to die…”
“The pillow in your pillowcase, is easier to touch.”
Angular in the way he needs to be
According to all my feminine curve
How is it that these shapes without eyes,
See purely, the notch-fitting grooves?
The live-wires running to mate at the center of ‘that’ gravity.
This sense of sound far surpasses that of sight, scent, touch.
“This has got to lie down,
...with someone else on top…”
“You can’t make me happy quite as good as me…”
“This has got to die”
That shade of chin, that strumming perfected wrist
That channeling through of whatever the fuck has snipped his riggers…
I’m sucking in his exhale.
I am inhaling all the angst that he’s mustered and canned
Caring nothing for the origin of why
Collecting instead, the glistening chant of this crowd of one, swallowing whole
Each gust of his chorus.
Chord upon chord, the simplicity is carnivorous
Eating away at the rawness of my guarded sensitivity.
Playing with my innards,
“...lovin’ is good if your dick’s made of wood…”
“..and the dick left inside, only half understood.”
“What makes the animal run, run away…?”
I am built not to run, but to fuckin' recognize.
And Christ Almighty has that been the weakened bone.
Love found in limbs is knocking on roulette
With less of a victorious outcome than I am willing to admit.
Ah, but I have. This aged version of self
Steady at the iron arm’s length, and only then
Admittedly safe under the weight of earned skills
An authority now, on wtf to steer clear of.
“..to dream within the dream…”
“I’ve hung (no more) my happiness on what it all could be…”
“...with you…” -with who? “...with you.”
Ha, here I sit, playing like a schoolgirl with this single-sided banter
Will the soliloquy never end? At 43, (of this specific nature)
Let me hope so.