Fumbling fingers yearning for connection, Reach out through negative space, Crash headlong into rejection. Curl back in defeat, Clenched fist to deflect, Fiery agony of regret.
An empty, disparaging inflection Cut from a hot pink tongue, flapping Dispassionately disproves theory of interconnection, Maybe myth, fable, love story -- Or maybe lack of detection, From calloused palms, Roughened with each ingestion Of honey suckle poison.
Was this the original intention? Or did the son choose to elect Another hidden path, indirect. This haze manifests crystalized predictions, Of hands meeting thighs, meeting hips, Pushing forward climactic introspection, Or just another muddled reflection, Of my endless projections, Always failing tests of retention, Mind permanently trapped in suspension, Of spiraling tension.