Soupy darkness enfolds
the wilted thornbush of your hands,
steepled plaintively in your ruined lap.

Your moist chin sags in defeat;
the mask of your tired smile
peels crookedly off your face
into the abyss of your leathery cleavage.

Ah, the void of thoughtless grief...
The burning house of your mind
lists limply to the side –
- a stranger’s hands smolder darkly
in the airless cave of your dreams.

The scar remembers the wound;
the wound remembers the pain –
- my flesh forgets your touch too soon,

Is is a sin to yearn for a nail?
Is is a crime to remember
the fleeting caress of your ice pick
on my hairless *****?
Is it a shame to laugh
when you’re hurting me beyond screams?

I remember your tender fists,
as my dog laps the essence of you
off the floor.
The dusk descends
through the flutter of curtains in the breeze.
The bath bath beckons steamily:
My wrist opens invitingly
under the gleaming caress
of my razor.