Strewn with threads
(his Thomas Pink, that Agent Provocateur - I wore for you once)
higher and higher it piles,
tricking my body into feeling like this bed isn’t as bare.
Another Sunday morning
crispy and bright. Like
our one Sunday :
entangled in sheets and your legs,
your arms holding more than my body.
Was this premeditated?
you should languish behind bars for this unrivaled love we’ve conceived -
this all-consuming love, leaching onto my dreams
your absence: slurping… sucking… siphoning,
my once plastic, manufactured happiness.
She [finally] beats.
But for how long?
Darling, you’ve induced me -
a virgin to such fruit
an addict I’ve become.
Yet, my sheets remain bare
so I lie,
silently awaiting my harrowing withdrawal.