It doesn't matter how intense the heat is inside me when I
reach out to touch I am all, thumbs
I see myself as suave
when clearly I am not, bumbling through this like The Three stooges, the blind
spot of my desire always before me, so I envision what I want rather than what
I deserve, love is a rose with too many thorns upon which I prick my fingers
and bleed everywhere
the heat inside me,
driving me forward, even if I can't quite see what I am about to crash into, a
regular demolition derby I cannot escape
I ache to be tender, to touch those parts of her that are
the most appealing, but like a gardener with no green thumb, I bumble it, then
cringe over the fact I did not see it coming, eternally regretting it,
perpetually trying to take it back, while still longing for it, needing it,
desperate to have her in my life, and all this time later, and these miles from
this highway, I still feel the same, meaning to let the heat out of me, needing to have her
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