The worry bled from her
fingertips into my bald head.
I saw her eyes go grey,
a welcome sight in
the recent overwhelming night.
I pulled on her hair,
I clung to her thighs,
I felt washed clean
by the secret she buried
in her beating breast.
I forked my tongue,
slithered into her mouth,
and tasted the new blackness
between us.
I lost myself as she
fought to contain breath,
I lost myself as she
freely displayed what little is left,
I lost myself in the misery
she transfered to me.
I do not fear the abyss
she and I sunk into--
the last territory of love,
the rebirth of meaning
on the deathbed of unearned optimism--
whether horned,
helpless,
or had--
she and I have only
begun to explore
the sanctuary of the mad.