Isn't it a pity that,
what she and I have
might be a
foretold; untold tale?

This writhing soul might be a fool to be

- t a n t a l i z e d -

by her honey-like scent,
with the topical rose redolence;
percolating every existing room for air
in my thickly tar-scarred lungs
from every hush of her troubled breath---

only then to realise that

every passing seconds spent

have always been a constellation of

== inane innuendo ==

to pique the lovelorn in me.