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

broken.