Our cathexis is gorgeous
and not in imitation,
healthy, strong, and
burning like sticky pine-bark;
the aroma is with me always.
She holds the other half of my desire
by her fingertips pinched
and would not relinquish
such a longing
if I could help it.
Peering past the pupils
into an ocean of tears
that I could drown in,
submerged in the unspeakable,
untranslated passion.
Every time I hold you,
my fingers fill your ribs,
like only mine could;
when you hold me,
I could die in your arms.
And the best times I've had
were when you and I
walked alone, hand in hand,
where we shouldn't,
flirting with the dead.
