The Dichotomy

A certain depth of solitude rains a casual existence in your presence.
The hope of a battered niche no longer cranes it neck and yet,
I still take careful steps.

When the last breath tornadoes through
and asks me of the yellow tail,
I reply with a shallow stagnation.

Do not question my ability to love, do not point bones and assume the knowledge
is there.

Still,

Weathered yearnings continue to seep through drains.
Single droplets of lively blood; iron, pungent
falter onto your shoulders.

And all I can produce is a stare.

Glass.

An empty bottled man,
his tongue sampling spoonfuls
of her plastic.
Their heavy chests
exploring sheets of yesterday's lust.
A snake down her throat
he twists and squirms to invade
every secret,
learning details of the smoke and bones.
A single ventricle
leaks a trickle of passion.

The man is no longer empty.

Hormones

Swallowing another individual’s lust for the unknown
and finding the consequences to be more than a psychedelic trip
through a blanket of legs
is,
well, just that.

The Morning After

The bare back is nothing but a
     platform for unyeilding words
     to scrape mental deteriorations into.
It resembles that one moment
     when the light cast it’s wake,
     harbouring hands that were
     meant to be yours.
It is the glass that crawls along
     your spouses’ spine,
     invigorating and weary where the
     nape folds in.
It is the steps lost within wine
     drenched lips,
     the only exit when a
     lamb tears with teeth.
How can it be expected that
     ribs crawl over time
     and torso’s move frequently?
And so, it is exactly what you think it is.

That one moment when you should have said no.