Stunted Growth

Caress
me -
My heart is on the floor.
Sleeping infidelity is not a crime
I need not request acquittal
if the the act is not lucid.
I never say what I mean.

Lucidity, a quite strange concept
after our now complete twelve-hours journey.
Such strange words spoken without
transition and spliced like spare limbs
As curtains bleed, the gradient sky,
bright as day, is scarred
by cottonwood and fluorescence.
Your hands slowly played out
scale after natural scale.
I am far and away.

But only through a promise-
a terrifying yelp, can we be free.
In my spinning state, I read words
that light fire like flint.
Trying to cry, I gaze ahead
into prismatic faith.
Where does my insecurity reside?
If it lies within you
then I have yet to find it,
to find anything worth putting up with.
My integrity is fissured,
finely disintegrating,
beknownst only to me.

Even as my mouth objects,
my submerged desires surface
through seas of muffled cotton.
Had I the ability to merge realities,
sever ties, live in a world free
of obligation, possibility could solidify.
However, my heart is not
a sacrificial lamb for
the sake of my brain,
or at least it should not be.

In ten minutes, in steam and soap,
anxiety will be doused in a basic solution,
citrus and spice will fall away.
I can delve into the reasons
only when my filter is missing,
stolen by substances undefinable,
transferred from kiss to
kiss under a dark star.
Imprisoned.

In the stratosphere we hover
like forgotten dolls, with notions like
gauze in our porcelain heads.
You may choose to disengage,
but recall your frailty
in the womb and on the ground.
When presented with queries of the future,
all we have ever learned
shall fall gruesomely short.