Vinegar, sour
to those eyes that kiss
with greater freedom, than
the mouth that holds back.
You taste
the flesh beyond your lips.
Bitter, fragile woman,
with your arms run across
with the bristles, the bumps
from sensation.
You waste
seconds, to turn around
to find no sound,
no nostrils from the hounds.
In your language,
release the whisper.
I count the curves,
same with the bloodied smile
from a thousand communications
on the purest, immaculate lines.
I count how often you swerve,
weeping and never keeping
the hearts given to you.
Signature and devotion
matter little.
I have come to remember
the saddest request,
our wakeful test
to be sure without
being pure.
Modern Romanticism 