the transitory nature of
your touch

disconcerting emotions sustained
by memories that stick like dust

i can’t get enough of this-
whatever ‘this’ is

my mind harps on about
your warmth, presence, and kiss

your broken hands grasp mine,
my poisoned lips touch yours;

nothing more than a sad race
to see who succumbs first

to the secret silencing both of us:
subdued, i bite my tongue

‘love’s’ just a synonym for ‘guilt’
and guilt’s the only race that i have won.