My Input
The yearn of your youth lingers
on the brim of my babbling brook,
like a diadem to a seemingly sempiternal
cyan[osis] strolling just ahead--
succumbing to the shifting seasons
just around the bend, blindly
pulling at the piers placed
to hold the hems of your heart
against mine for a time.
Angling the ages you've already
passed, past the places
we've wanted to wither away in
when the time came to wash
the dirt off from your days
inside me - murky waters
never looked so appealing:
whirlpooling the plughole and
contaminating rats instead.
We've reached a rather redundant
impasse-- imposing on the
strands of strain we tend to twine
around our fingers-- regardless,
these waters run
deeper than you ever ventured,
so consider me a no-diving zone.
Given half the chance
I'd make like driftwood and
s p l i t
the next time you tried to touch me
without saying "sorry", first.
I don't care how good make up
sex is supposed to be.
