The thoughts were not
given permission.
The cold of November
Entombs me,
Yet infinite fantasies
Shroud me in flames
Such that the pearly snow
Melts in the shape of my footsteps.
I have created my own destiny,
A chalice of sweet, syrupy poison
That sticks to my teeth
Until you come to
Lick them clean,
Dragging your nails across my
Sternum in
Loops of eight.
You tap me
And the sap flows,
Yet neither one of us has the patience
To sit while it
Boils down to
Something you can pour over
Blueberry pancakes on a
Sunday morning in
November.
So the sweetness is
Watered down
And pours from my mouth
Trickling down
Dripping from in between
My legs
Spread wide
Staining the white sheets
Both wasted.
You were never really there
So why is there sugar in my mouth?
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