I come along.
Answering
with fever – closer, in these
weighted, pleasuring moments
when I leave a lingering
droplet, on your open mouth,
for your awaiting glance,
testing a ghost
to disappear, again.
Craving a tear,
coming loose. Carving
twistedness,
among jealous eyes,
as you were looking away
to see, to plea
for a thing not brought back.
Memories lost, among sands,
faded inside dusty photographs –
blackening into storms,
worsened into
what would not undo
itself, at your
delicate torture.
Brushing a tress, aside,
while kissing a tearstained,
wearied face.
I return,
returning with a second,
white, stainless dress.
I remain,
while answering
a heartbeat with music,
with brittle notes
from a solid throat.
Modern Romanticism 