Rolling around in the dirt
and coming out
looking so clean
should be illegal.
Have you bewitched
the earth too?
Is nothing immune
to your spell?
You utter three words
and I'm yours.
Must be sorcery.
Why else
would I be so eager
to bend to your every whim?
Stuntman,
out here like
what you say?
When you been?
How you do?
Who you know?
Look at my...
you already know.
Hold it in.
But you already know.
Head infected with
images of her,
everywhere we loved
each other.
When did my love
become obsession?
Was it on the bathroom tile?
The kitchen counter?
Trying my hardest
to keep a clear head
for the impending summation,
but stuck in
her reverie.
No one understands
why the risk was worth
the torture.
I think it was
the small couch
in the back room.
She's calling out to me
in my dreams,
some would deem nightmares,
a haunting.
The small of her back.
The nape of her neck.
Her lip, bit.
This is my doing.
She tainted me, my world.
This is my undoing.
I call out without knowing.
You went out looking,
found your guilty conscience,
and fueled it.
Wanted to know what
it felt like
to be wanted again.
The feeling scared you,
so you
lashed out at your love.
Brutal honesty
for a brute.
Passion and love
die on different hills.
Licking your breadcrumbs
off the floor,
begging for more.
God this is getting messy
but I'll keep paying either way,
welcoming consequence;
I'm so filthy.
Tell me.
Tell me I'm so filthy.
Please.
The avalanche -
no reason ensues.
Passion and feeling,
intuited.
Struggling
from both sides,
a strange camaraderie forms.
Thought you'd start howling
at any moment.
Leading with your
unchecked ferality,
hoping for shock and awe.
(Mostly just very obviously
starved for attention.)
I see you, I have no choice;
you assume something deeper,
crave it, assert your desire.
Don't get creepy man,
it's too early for this shit.
Count my lucky stars
it wasn't a full moon tonight.
Knee-deep in avoidance,
and I see it.
The mirror's right there
after all.
I can't bring my eyes
to meet yours.
Voicemails unplayed.
I mean,
I love you.
This can still be love,
right?
I'm cowering
and licking my
self-inflicted wounds.
Aiming out of the blue
lacking everything but desperation,
ground control says
I need more fuel.
That sinking dread comes back in spades
as I drift further out of orbit.
Everyone knows I'm losing control
but tell me I'll be fine.
Gravity has a way
to stop you in your tracks,
so give it time.
Just close your eyes.
Now the night's overtaking days
and I'm taking note
while claiming no change is necessary.
I'll stay my course,
see this through.
What's the worst gravity can do to you?
Slept on the floor
for you.
And if that's not enough
I can't imagine
the levels of depravity needed
to appease you.
I'll trudge these depths
for another hour or two
doing quick math but
I wouldn't count on
much more than that.
