[Split Eight]

relationship-centric and blue,
men were never meant for the moon.
I could weather a tempest but never the dew-
we prefaced tomorrow's tonight
with an argument. fight. it's better with two,
play bard to the temptress in step to a harrowing tune,
her curves carve like a spine. marvel and swoon.
my hands felt like mallets as she's drenched in darkest undress,
tantamount to such passion is its embargo, removed.
now the apartment's exhumed of every last of Monica's specks,
but the fucking was even more messy than the carpet suggests,
and I thought of her breath, and mine like a bottle
I pressed to the taut of her neck. and I thought of you
coming home with half a mind for forgiveness
but I'm driving you home, indecisive, like sighs into kisses.
and I think that it's hard. to incite a division
so I'm sipping this whiskey. nursing a cliffside demeanor.
as a preface to burning a bi-leafed reliever.
every fire consumes.
I hang from old flames like the notes of a pandering ballad
sung as a tiresome fugue, meant for two,
that I've weighted with sand for a ballast,
and it trails off into two- tangents, unbalanced-
one that you and I knew would never resume.


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really just an exercise. will feed more later.