Machinations

The lingering
(bittersweet)
scent of your flesh on my fingers
triggers all the figures
of my
overactive
imagine it
wasn’t only infatua
ation,
the automatic emancipation of my
(b e a t i n g)
heart from my head,
from the chart tracing my
DREAD
to the start you
took in my stead. Oh,
and it’s like nighttime
in the fall of my mind,
with its artificial lights and neon
blinds, hiding away the daily
grind
from
your hips
pressed
against mine,
from your lips that should be
mine.
And I’m
(oh shit oh shit)
crossing that line
that we’ve failed to
define,
every time that you tell me
to shine and pine away for someone else who
should be
better than
could only be
you.

Why can’t it be you?

~Noct…………………