Addiction comes again,
Cogitation fuels the yearner,
A soaked rag petting skin
As a bellow stokes ember.

Endorphins, tastes tripping on the tongue
Just a little,
Wet lips cracking with electric spume
For a piffling sip of ambrosia.

Want needs emptiness
When it is full of gluttony.
A ***** drop falls
rippling in the blood of energy.

Racing, flipping, falling through pages to the darker side of your emotions and it eats away at the better part of yourself until you're all but sand.

Sand left desiccated and burning
for a cold withdrawal of the tide.

Lone your stupor sits.
What reverie
you declare,
ambrosia never stang like this
since last the rain came stinging.

Ah but puddles my dear,
what fun!
I'll watch your splish splash
but let us not forget
the protection glass affords.

I fear large numbers.
I  confess,
it's true.
It's not the hands per se,
rather the eyelashes
and how they remind me of teeth.
They chew me up
with a glance.

Still, what good
could one decimal eyelash hope for
faced with Napoleon's specters.
I'd wager on scarce.

Even so, eyelashes chewed through
my thatcher.
I'll have to buy
a new one.
One that isn't so fond of how the Swiss
process milk.

Not that it's desired
but it's still nice to have a tally
in the loner's column,
now and again.

Poetry
Infected me
With flecks of ink
Asymmetrically.