If love is a fire,
this is a funeral pyre;
ashes falling
like nuclear winter.
Like a blowtorch,
*** had soldered us together--
I'm too paralyzed by fear
to hope for something more.
Only in the black of night do we see each other.
We barely speak
outside the foul-mouthed foreplay
and passionate epithets exchanged
in our sweat-soaked moments
of collective agony.
Like so much of my life,
this has to hurt to feel good.
A smack on the *** must suffice
when a kiss on the lips can **** you.
I don't dare look at her face.
There's so much I say
in spite of myself—
A litany of confessions
in my expressions.
Not that she would notice--
her eyes are outside,
aimed at a horizon I can't see.
We share this silence
because it's the only thing
either of us still cherishes.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 12:25 AM UTC
If love is a fire,
this is a funeral pyre;
ashes falling
like nuclear winter.
Like a blowtorch,
*** had soldered us together--
I'm too paralyzed by fear
to hope for something more.
Only in the black of night do we see each other.
We barely speak
outside the foul-mouthed foreplay
and passionate epithets exchanged
in our sweat-soaked moments
of collective agony.
Like so much of my life,
this has to hurt to feel good.
A smack on the *** must suffice
when a kiss on the lips can **** you.
I don't dare look at her face.
There's so much I say
in spite of myself—
A litany of confessions
in my expressions.
Not that she would notice--
her eyes are outside,
aimed at a horizon I can't see.
We share this silence
because it's the only thing
either of us still cherishes.
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