disappointing triumph on honest lust
cold as the knife in the back of the moment
tasting the cooling sensation of a bittersweet fear
can't it feel like it
wasn't
gone.
freeze that virus on that fingertip-tipping icy trails of
what was it called
that
that
that damn
heartbeat
beating heart
thumping of chilled veins, biting as if they were as
acerbic as toxic butterflies in my
shaking head
sophisticated as his head between her legs
on the glance of his glasses, rimmed by
anticipated desire like an
uninterested whore on an iceberg of
unsatisfied triumph.
mounted on the pike of the marrow of the useless
caressing the tendrils of a sun-kissed afterthought
"oh, yes, sir, it's all real"
suddenly not as tasking yet
suffering of fraudulent
perception.
no sir, it's not real
never could have been,
so do try again before the mask falls from her
breast
onto the throbbing disrespect
nestled between the curls
laughter.
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