The blood that would naturally
Seep from your fingers as a point of reference
To that which is
Ghostly and unattainable.
The wire rim of my glasses
Are baked with a cherry crust
As are the beds
Of your fingernails. This
Crimson liquor has traces of
You, wrapped in soft, recently dried
Silk, warm as it presses
Against my lithe body;
In my nakedness my crazed hazel
Are dilated by nonconformity
The way one smooth leg rises
Dripping from the waters
Small clots dribble down my neck,
to trace my chest, belly,
till that wanderer is found, licked up
by the blade of a cannibal.

I would not
Describe this to you, dear,
Less I felt it my duty,
a pledge that you and I
shall remember our dark secret
the ventricle towards regression and submission
that we both bathe in each other's pain
and the lives of others; that you
are no more than a voice
distant, exonerated,
breathy and exhilarating
a meek child at my ear.
I shall delight ever more,
when the hours have flown
on gossamer wings that wrap around
bodies that fruit decay; my
scab and cherry smile plays variations
when enveloped in that damp cocoon;
my body casts mirth
when the blood runs cold.