he
for whom
abstinence
or indulgence
merely imposters
ever equanimous
untouched by cosmic maya
bearing that crescent on his crown
steeped in the bliss of pure awareness
primal soul with no beginning or end

© 2019

Cuddled in bed au naturel, legs twisted around that sculpted waist, I smell the english rose in the silky strands of your hennaed hair. But it’s his vetiver-tinged cologne sprawled over your swan-like neck which suffocates me.

An empty pack of Marlboro, after our hurried twist under the satin sheets,  is all that remains. Your distracted eyes during that last puff give it away. It’s our love that will go up in smoke.

continental drift
engineered by stealthy time ~~
shards of broken glass


© 2019