wishful thinking

he will never know how it felt;

you waiting

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

offer

without regret



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,
star struck
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.