Sipping on a Smirnoff Ice...
The thing that's most pressing at this very moment...
is to tap the ash from a slender cigarette...
one too many, and at times, wanting to touch a woman.
The image of her shoulder touched by a man, not mine but of past hands...
not mine, nor His, nor yours.
maybe her dad's, who cradled her to sleep.
Now she sets her clock to 7, how I wish to inhale her yawn.
She tows the eyes of the gentlest of men behind, and waves goodbye to something
that any man can understand- desire.
Needs to press both palms on fire,
listens to sizzling flesh,
turns the room black,
erases the doubts as seconds
tick on bread crumbs.
Follows blood drips now,
picks at a scab.. wants
to be bald if all others follow. This sorrow impales starting from anus
to a hole in a heart that knows only so well...
Her head up high to a violet sky and violin strings
stroke her shoulders as if bathing in a warm river.
A foolish heart speaks such foolishness.
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