…and now you believe you know my story the controversies of your phallus ideology fearing the void of a blood soaked page, etched markings of scars left to age, tear-less, these eyes lay dry haunting the clouds of a melancholy sky. Choking life from collapsed veins, memories of when the floods last came. An empty vial, a constructed belief an idiots guide to phallic relief.
When she tells you she misses you, she means to say she craves you, she yearns to wrap herself in your essence and slowly devour tender kisses through the twilight. She means that she desires the way your voice curves across her skin, and the rise and fall and rise again. She means she wishes to kiss smiles onto your lips and dimples into your cheeks she means she realises her soul searches for you, reaches out to you when she tells you she misses you she means to say, “kiss me, kiss me long and deep and true let me taste for just a moment, the essence that is you”
I always know where to find you tightly packed away in a dusty chest at the far end of things that didn’t go to plan I still recall the view late at night and yet the room is a distant blur of nylons crisp cider and munchies our hunger was insatiable nourished finally by the morning breakfast and then, you fell beneath the stampede of regret? Or panic perhaps? And so the tide washed away the scent and you shuttered down the doors, absentmindedly hitting like from one year to the next as you wander through your days.