Junk Yard

The thing is it’s all slipping away even as you peer into the hollow soul of it. If only they would feel the claws of it, too, then maybe they could understand what this feels like. Maybe a conversation or at least the quiet passing of a cigarette back and forth when the desperation really swells like a motherfucker.

Remember when we used to glow like wet sand beneath the moonlight. How you would cover every inch of my body with your burning mouth. You and I, a deserted beach awash in escape, paradise like promises kept in the beating of the heart against the skin. At the center of the blood red rose, into the folded petals swirling softly inward, you follow me. You will follow me, won’t you? Even if we understand each other so well it scares the shit out of both of us. Even in spite of the way my eyes play tricks on me, you in the mirror, you always falling apart.

They make all these bizarre predictions. A soul mate, a twin flame. A balancing act as if there were a point and a counterpoint to a love which claims to encompass everything. The buttercream light of morning melts along the rooftops and the trees. A day awaits, her slick pink tongue out against the blade like a threat, like a nervous breakdown. It’s too much coffee and not a lot to say. It’s a thick book of love poems tossed out in the rain and left for trash.

5 Replies to “Junk Yard”

  1. It’s not that we don’t yearn for those abundant days when we were wearing a perpetual glow that was fed by what we claimed was an eternal love that will warm our hearts and ignite our bodies past forever. It’s really not that we don’t desire for each of those passionate moments when our eyes feasted on every dimple, scar, and every last birth mark our bodies possessed. It’s not that we don’t hunger for those days when we alone were enough and the world was just a necessity for our bodies to exist in. It’s just fucking hard to accept that we that existed in that world has evolved. Love morphed into something that is simply practical and familiar on most days. Occasionally the fire within is rekindled and when it is the glory of golden days wraps around us. Most of the time that is enough. Not always though. Today is one of those not always days when desire and yearning for a lot more than golden glory days are simmering. Not even poetry can satisfy the hunger that slowly grows…
    This piece of yours is deeply felt. The last unlocked the dungeon where I exiled things I didn’t want to tackle. Brilliant as always. Perhaps too brilliant even… 😳❤️❤️❤️

    Liked by 1 person

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