Inamorata

The rain clocks in hard, like a knife through the gutters and it crashes on my windows sobering my floor with infamous dew. I rely on all these bad notes, the ones where she tells me she loves me and then flies with cheap rejections where love use to lie. I cannot pick this raw scar dry, and it keeps swimming in a quicksand of blood scrapping at my insides as all the broken promises pile up into split level dirt. I slip into a coma of memories that exist only in my head. My heart the shape of my hands holding onto the nothingness of our fleeting courtship. I cannot even smell the flowers she placed in the palm of my hands any longer. The sweetness of her perfume is the scent of flaming moths, that have long lost their flavor. The ailing sweetness of her words escape into the torment of my heart.

We shed our skin for all the lands within.

Lost in ourselves.

I hunger for your touch.