You were railroad track marks
the spots you placed
up and down like pinhole cigarette stains
all across my breaking heart.

You were an escape artist act
up in the sky
like memories of sharp objects
drawn
across our skin.

They say people cut themselves
to feel some control,
but they are wrong.
We opened skin
to make sure
we were still human.

There are names for girls like you:
pretty, pure, and more...

But I know ones that are liked the best,
you ***** ******* *****.

I was thinking about
your phantom body pressed warmly cool against me,

and I thought of...

tasting your harmony breath,
tracing fingertips across your vapour soft belly skin,
tickling rings around the small of your horizon bending small-of-back, grasping your silk as *** ***,
swallowing your sweet sticky blooming sugar flower.

and then...

*******
              grabbing
                              choking
                                            spanking
                                                             scratching
                                                                            moaning
                                                             slapping
                                                   biting
                                   pinching
                screaming
*******

a cleansing storm

                       all
   over
             you.

I don't write for you.
I don't write for even myself.
I write for simply no reason
and so very much less.

I'm sending out signals,
trench warfare's got me down.
Digging through this foxhole,
looking for believers.

There isn't much left for me now,
as the yellowed gas rolls in,
except to look at my flare, high and bright,
(your angel-tongue hair, blowing in the wind)
and hope that you will see it.

Squeeze the bone until the chalk runs dry
escaping into your body
unwound like chalk
on a whiteboard.

Lust should only allow so much;
but you find places, cracks in this
brittle sidewalk, where
you grow through
green,
like grass.

You haunting ******* ignition switch,
the nail's-head trigger was hung over like
a pendulum Poe would be proud of.
I'd have stopped elevators with my blood and bone,
held it back, pushed it back,
taken my life out in a splash of cement chalk-lines,
to save you.

I still dream of you.

The good dreams hurt
much more than
the bad ones did,
when you still lived.