markbousfield

I am edifice to your black coffee,
I am sacrament to your bleakest sunrise,

Yet still you seem to want,
you seem to desire what you so easily and readily discarded,
The ribbons of the scar you left inside of me,
yes,
you lay upon me like a burying gown,
the softest of all cloths,
ironic as the goosed flesh of death has no need for it's sensitivity.

This slow purge,
this catharsis,
inch by inch,
plug by plug,
blood by blood.

When we have been the same thing at the same time,
the same body, the same flesh, the same misery
I find I am no longer co-joined to the idea.

I am released.