he will never know how it felt;
wingless wonder of a wishful night
or the tips of your eyelids
wet, from knowing.
he cares more about the gloom
the curve of a dissenting incubus
than the lips that you will always
he will never loves you beyond the burden
the cold shoulders
the double guessing
the things that throw your axis
into the abyss.
if it is silence he seeks,
he will find you,
and windpipe torn,
by your own bloody self-less hands
while you search the distant and absent eyes
for a man that works well with his hands
takes pleasure in holding the small of a woman's back
in his embrace
before cradling her face
and smothering her breath
with his own.