Your skin proves once again to be a familiar home
My tongue feels better in your mouth
My lungs breathe easier when it is your breath they breathe
And god DAMN, am I tired of writing love poetry (about you).
But my mind is eased when you are on it
So I’ll take another hit of your memory, baby.
That’s all you seem good for these days anyhow.
I wanna fuck.
No, I don’t wanna fuck
I wanna fuck like us
Like wet between our legs,
Between the sheets
Bent over your dresser
In the chair you stole
And wherever else our skin touches
It’s all zuses fault anyway.
If back on that fateful day millions of years ago
He had just left all us lovers alone
We wouldn’t spend so much damned time
Trying to shove ourselves back together again.
Trying to graph each onto the other, just like it was intended.
Some days I try to sing you out of my soul.
Like if I can just get the arrangement right
Or if I can hit the high-note like some kind of red-headed Miriah Carrey wanna-be
I could banish you from what seems to have become your permanent residence
But every time,
Just when I am about to shatter glass
My voice cracks
Plummeting you back down into the depths of me
Because I know that only the way to truly remove
Someone so scarred onto that organ that causes poets the world over to blow their load
Is to let the second hand, the minute hand, the hour hand
The turning pages of a calendar
Wash over and over the culprit holding on to your heart like a tick
Until they are finally eroded away
And all that remains is a trace of who you both used to be
Lest ye forget what they were brought into your life to teach ya in the first place.
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