Far from glad
and not at all unhappy,
drift sensually along
through the darkness
until we are both nothing
in the void of perilous
misunderstanding, like a
ghost without a sheet or
casket with no grave.
Unknowing of
what we can't know
complements the lustful nature
of young lovers who
don't realize
what the other wants
nor themselves.
Thinking is like red wine:
good in small dibbles,
poison past the cusp,
injected venom into
every evaluation,
greedy,
ugly, and
suffocating.
And on most days,
we can cope with our flaws,
but on my worst days,
I could kill someone,
and that
should be obvious by now.
