L’Église Rouge

Blacklight,
backlit on the white
of your lies,
the red of your thighs,
the blue of your eyes.
Your sin
is the sweetest smile against my skin,
thin
from all the pins
in my spine,
all the gin
on my mind,
[un]confined,
undefined.
So why don’t you grind
your hips
into my grip,
and why don’t you wind
till your flesh rips
with blind
lips

on my neck
at your beck
and call,
hanging from every wall…

And you’re set at a c.r.a.w.l,
like feigned
paper cranes
filling the |ines of my veins,
the black of my stains,
stretched
on
the
reins
to my brain,
not yet sane,
s tra i n ed,
trained
on your hand
that leaves its brand,
where I stand,
while you draw
and claw
(circles) on my shoulder,
finding flaws
and laws
that make you colder
in the eye of every beholder,
lining bruised counters
that have had too many encounters
to be clean.
And there you lean,
pulling mepullpullpull against the sheen
of the gleam
on your cheek,
leaving me weak
against the reek
of lust
and broken trust,
to the tilt
of your head,
the lilt
that speaks of your bed.
Oh, and the night is so young,
with my flesh on your tongue,
my heart in your lungs,
and just as I dedicate,
intoxicate,
predicate
myself to your religion,
you change the collision
of your decision
and sway
away
from me right after,
with heartbreaking laughter,
meant for another to hear,
like a kiss to the shell
of an ear,
the swell
of a tear.

“Let’s go out tomorrow too.

I’ll dance just for you.”

~Noct…………………