It's not fucking if you're holding hands
fingers like hungry tentacles,
sucking out the truth and spitting words
into verses, regurgitated lies -
dressing your wrists with ribbons.
Promises that taste of defeat dribble from vodka-lips
and mingle with formaldehyde kisses
but are exhaled easily and form crystals -
that linger on your fingers late at night.
Alas, I call upon Abraxas -
and we kiss away the lies your fingers told
but Aphasia remembers what you have uttered -
and even though you held my hand
we both left this, fucked.