While you were ****** and I was intoxicated. I saw you through a Rosé tinted wine glass and felt your eyes caress me through the Constant, Concupiscent THC haze.
We were junkies.
Sybarites on substances, Addicted to lingered kisses. ****** on lust, wrapped golden. Eye to eye and skin on skin. Our altered minds in synchronicity. Our bodies pulsing pulsing pulsing To instinct's beat, the almost thereness. The best bit was always the almost thereness while high as a kiteness because After there, Comes Here and nowness And
my mouth is dry And your lips are tight And you won’t speak to me. So I try to ask you if... But you shut your eyes so you don’t hear me and I know the answer. You make me hate myself almost as much as you hate me so I know you’ll never love me. But. Your lips part in the coldest lie as we lie cold and lonely, In the shared bed. Sober and resentful. La petite mort melancholic.
Me? Do I hate you too? No! I just don’t like you any more. I’m not sure that I ever did.
Inspired by the WhatsApp message I sent to an ex lover telling him I didn’t want to do the ‘friends’ bit.