You’re a heartbreak through con-artist the way you
lie in bed,
a blind spot in the periphery of my dilated
And there’s never enough ours for us
enduring the weak days,
running your hands along my hourglass figure
—— what a waist of time
But darling, we’re larger than some of your parts,
and how they break my art!
The way you illicit touch,
very clandestine, very wicked,
my spine softens and wilts.
Our bodies turn, a slumbering limb
Is it okay if I fall in love before I fall asleep?
You know, humans have the shortest tension span during sex.
They can’t handle the friction, the confliction,
the eventual eviction—
so they make out and break up.
I call it the premature evacuation.
An immaculate contraception the way people co-lapse,
All I want is for someone to carry me over the flesh hold.
But before I do, before
you, I was the solo master baiter—-
a hunter, a God-hater, a marriage-ain’t-er, but then
I praeyed upon you,
”Aman! Finally— What a catch!"
They don’t call it a hook-up for no reason.
Still, our heartbeats the other’s up.
Monday, mourning, you say,
"Date night bores me, want to frequent home base?”
You’re breathing, borderline yawning and yet, this sudden tone
Are you the hymn to my err?