The last honest thing about me is the
Sweat rolling down my temples in earnest
Frenzied breath reaching a crescendo as I track the
Final bit of spine she’s been saving for my mattress
Counting down the seconds, pretending the last act will
Be anything other than her slipping out of that
Little backless dress
Letting it fall like a finale curtain, blood rushing to my ears
In cacophonous applause, hands outstretched
Timeless moments twisted into rampant professions
Reluctantly doling out love, all she wants is
My commitment, my knees over wrists
A jaw open over throat, mouth over neck
Making it like this could be the last, might be the best

3AM Thoughts // AKA “You Move, A Form Of Art.”