Your love is an inclement shadow

gasping rhythms

on the dust-ridden floorboards

of the house with the rickety

white picket fence at the end of the road.


Your eyes are flashlights

shining too bright

into my face and blinding me

from the world around.


Your touch is ten thousand volts

of electricity pulsing through my veins

like a horde of rodents

attacking my body from the inside out.


Your very existence

torments me to the brink of a violent

insanity that hovers

ever-present in my mind.


It is most


for you to be



of me.

This is what happens when I write a stream of consciousness at midnight. Yeah.