That which I pay for, dearly -
The mattress beneath me is imagined to be your chest.
You would cradle me, the way I feel cradled by your gaze.

That which I pay for, dearly -
The lack of holy fiber, which strain to kiss my bones.
It is these very bones - how they ache.
A deep burn, down to the charred marrow.

That which I pay for, dearly -
I pain to hear your voice.
I fear it is warped by the stale heat within my brain.
Its echoes vibrating within the damp cave of my memory -
The pitch now sharp, I suspect.
It rings, a ghostly bellow - to that I cling.

That which I pay for, dearly -
Draw the line in wet concrete.
I fill it with pitch black ink when dry.
It is a line I dare not cross.

This blue pool ripples after the sporadic thumps of my heart.
I bottle it.
Fill the blue glass with beads and pearls - an effort to make this ugly thing sightly.
But it is bottled, I swear.

That which I pay for, dearly.