I forgot to mention
That when she bloomed and puckered rose,
I thought about the irony of blood and wound.
The imprint of wearied lips
Contoured the progress of laugh-lines.
-A hiccup mistaken for a chuckle-
So now I mold wrinkles like scorched skin
Covered with a skin graft,
Beauty mark from a stolen face,
“Be silent when discussing pain.”
I know what she was (to me).
But not who she will be.
As it relates to sex.
I can taste the cocks she will have,
Hear the laughter of children I wanted.
-Everything involving subjectivity
(Obvious) is me.
Not her. But she was my connection to being.
Where we failed,
I failed-the transference was palpable.
I was and am a servant to the patterns
Of laugh-lines and tasty cocks.
But death shouldn’t be about possessing memories,
Or the progress of failed wants.
Love is dense,
Seek to idolize