the only way to fix something is to tell it to stop
but you're moving -- tickingpulsingreacting like a bomb
implodes (one last inward heartbeat) before shattering everything
and the smoke dances a foxtrot in my eyes
and I realize that I love it.
I'm addicted to the feel of you
the texture and the senseless yet utterlydelicious
constant questioning -- tomorrow evening (when the stars are reborn and
winter frosts over my reason), whose name will you be calling?
who will matter, then?
and I pretend to be surprised when it's always me.
you're a contradiction; wonderful and brutaland absolutelyfuckinginsane
( you pretend to make sense while my head bobs like I'm
listening and not thinking of the eight pints of blood that are rushing to my cheeks)
and each moment stills (a snapshot in time) because abruptly I've realized
again that something here is irreparably