I chewed through the ice
of your skin only to find
I can never be warm
in your delusions.
You sing of fate as if
random was the lying
stepchild of inevitable.
We are not “meant to be.”
The scent of sex is our
only connection... lonely,
breast feeding on available
until our spines can support
the weight of leaving.
Drink more wine to sweeten goodbye.
We are two ships crashed
upon concrete who will
never find enough moonlight
to fill our sails.
Let the exit door be your epiphany.
Comments
I like the imagery of two ships crashed upon concrete wall ~ That exit door can be bittersweet ~
Thanks for participating in Sunday's Challenge and wishing you happy week ~
Hank