An Ode to Muses to Kalliope

Inebriated Delight

The kiss of death isn't a person.
He kisses me when I feel the most alive.
He creeps up on me in the dead of the night when love intensifies with every touch.
He has no name or morality.
This kiss turns passion into pleasure and anger into giggles.
I want to live on the tip of his tongue forever,
Until he spits me out and chews on the bits of my skull
And leaves my crushed bones falling through his fingers like the sands of an hourglass.
He lives on the hands of a clock and drinks directly from my arteries.
I can't give him a name because he belongs to no one,
Until he leaves me in the morning with a headache and acid burning through my heart.
I see him through smudged glasses and slow-motion sequences,
With music in waves and the crunch of every snowflake.
I collect these experiences in charms and amulets,
Because paranoia clouds my words and slurs my lyrics.
The kiss of death is the wrong note in a song,
A painful experience you suffer through for the rest of the sheet music.
I stay away from him for now,
Though he sits perched on my shoulders and watches with a smug charm.
He possessed another body before mine,
Who spoke his true intentions through the fog of a foreign city
And only cries through rain coated in pollution.
I've been called a hog in human flesh
And I found someone who can't eat me.
I love them both while they lie with one another.
I crave you again despite the empty feeling you leave me with.
The death of a kiss,
It doesn't require an apple or a forked tongue.
It's who I am and who I want to be.