I wanted something from him. Poetry worked to fill the nook inbetween vessels; ducts of bloodflow, traumatized nerves that would find me destitute of calm and untouched by thermal energy. He killed my yearning with easy words formed into kisses blown across the couch. Into the aged bullet-obstructed wounds, concealment breaks the element of deaf, auditory perception granted as these spiral shaped cavities hemorrhage hearing “I love you” ensconced years within his ego. There was nothing left to look for.
Then, why am I still sitting here in vain trying desperately to find the word Poet next to the impotent and perpetual course of figurative language playing tug of war with my mind and my mouth?
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