The force of power derived from the momentum of our engagement lingers on my mind’s lips. To this day.
Like the dew right before noon; it begins to fade, but I find myself still damp every morning, realizing the feelings reoccur on me.
It’s not the way your thighs do. Or what’s between.
It’s not the way your eyes do. Or the sex’s shade of gleam.
It’s not the way your black hair. Falls between your red lips and gets stuck to them.
While you sleep in my bed in a romanticized semi-fictional memory.
It’s because you don’t give a fuck about me, but are unable perform as a bitch do.
Or how you hate the world, but still love life.
How you detach from us all and still have compassion.
How you do absolutely nothing, but still draw a reaction.
How these words turn you off.
How, for you, I can bleed on every page
Only to have you throw them all away.
Because you’re embarrassed.
Know it doesn’t matter.
Caught in an eternal
one night stand.
We will always be naked
No matter the layers
We put between us.
No matter the distance,
No matter how much matter separates us
Is what matters.
So I’ve created my own life,
But named it after you.
Discovered other delights
And engaged thinking of you.
We could have been young
And drowned in ourselves.
Burned out love
like searing skin touched by a cattle iron. Branded each other to each other with scarring.
Now it’s like lightning and thunder.
Always together, but never perceived to touch.
And the pen.
The poet and the lover.
I’ve tried to forget her.
I’ve tried to bring her back.
I’ve tried to push her away
To get a view of what she really is.
But I am a Baudelaire,
and she doesn’t care.
I am A Rousseau.
And she is the
in my poem.