He doesn’t get you and you don’t get him.

Isn’t that punishment enough?

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Don’t feel you.

Pounding, binding and never-ending.

Look at all the nothing you have done,
this is why you cannot be content in solitude.

Press a thumb upon a needle to produce a red you wish to paint with.
This is a letter to myself and it says:

“Keep that longing heart with you no matter how many times you fall in and out of Love for you see the clouds in their eyes. These lost men who roam looking for a soul as you do. They do not have the skills you have to breathe their air in and taste who they are and admire their being.

You have found Love in so many hearts as you have much to give so let them take it, let them tear the very fibre of you in two leaving you motionless and gasping for answers.

It is simple, they cannot see you as you see them.”

I fall in and out of Love with my best friends everyday and it is painful but this is my way of life.
A sensory experience of guttering and hearth wrenching moments, my highs are blissful and must be taken with the lows.

I love them dearly.

And I will love the next one just the same.

His Tears,

A past lover’s name always lingers on your lips.
You feel the pressing urgency to scream it out,
declare an undying Love that has never faded.
But it never passes the formation of breath.

We sit and discuss over tea how I remind you,
of the days you miss.
Not noticing the day’s flying away.
I fall under the same spell.

The past is my best-friend,
the present a cold handshake
and the future a figure dressed in shadows gritting its teeth.

Where does one go from here,
Held motionless by the fear,
Of the unknown and more so,
the lingering and staggering familiarity.

Coldweb

White drifts it’s way across the street.
Although the distance is there.
The same snow lies on the corner of our eyes.

A spider falls on my shoulder,
he talks to me and says,
“I have never seen such a web

Study the room, those cobs are yours
spun from pale fingertips.
shall we fetch a duster.”

Chill in the air,
dragons breath.
Leave them, I say.
For I have, snow to enjoy.

The cold will only sit, for so long.

 

Iniquitous Being

The forfex traces the worn lines,
cutting deeply.
An act of passion.
That guttering hoarse stiffness of his throat.
A moan or perhaps a scream.

This is a design of unconventional means.

A test to see which subject will become his mate.

=
+
x

4 separate beings lying on their backs, for the masses.

This is the game.
Of the inverts