My God, I love you.
Want you.
I imagine your skin, warm,
Calloused, rubbing my hands on the flaws
Until they are sore.
The haze lifts on my world.
For minutes
Hours, sometimes—
And then the feeling fades.
I'm out on the road again,
The grey by my feet made.
I cannot see anything:
The fog is so thick
I can't even notice that
I cut my left foot on a brick.
The sun is so red.
I look at it without reverence
It leaves us, deceives us
Expects deference
Do the roses sway in the wind? Does dew on them run?
Are they even roses, or the aftertaste of the sun?
And then I'll see another,
Who knocks me off my track.
I hope, for all your sakes
That you never love me back.
YOU ARE READING
Anarchy
PoetryAnarchy. A swirl of topics: emotions, allusions to history, social issues... And somewhere in the maelstrom comes forth rhymes and prose. Note: If you can't be bothered to read all the poems (quite understandably), I've starred the better ones.
