camphor rose

to lay down and tell me of your discontentment, took me by surprise. you, almost crying. teary and watery. a little cotton-ish in your pallor. a little befuddled, unhappy, and confused. it has been under five months and three weeks. your eloquence of familiarity, warm like milk, honeydew smooth and supple, made me at home. a glass of crystal, clean fragrance, crisp water and jiggling ice cubes, rattling and whirling by the nightstand. we bend over, smile, and eyeball a vehemence, an intrigue. a remorse through your convexity, a frustration, the concavity. a voice of reason, irrational, illogical, sloshes around your serious hoarseness. of attraction, attention, sincerity and sexuality, you emanate a spectrum of confidence, a plenitude of talent, a facultative tapestry of experience, sleaze and deviance. of the bathhouses, the strip vehicles, the molly coddles, the arm rugs and trickery, of your guiltiness and conscience, slapping and swarming against the injustice of your profession. this is the welcome to your loneliness, your solitude. to which you blurt out and say resentment is like cancer. i latch on to your meaning. to the chasm of your vocabulary, unperturbed. it metastasizes so quickly. of your partner, married with a child, playing hide-and-seek, beck and call of an alcoholic reality. your imbalance quickly settles in, wrought in a shabby cast-iron doubt decadence, creasing and lurking in a medieval reality of law and lawlessness. meeting at a cast bubble, soaped and lubed like your goo dolls, rolling in a wind slime, chiming and gawking, milling and filling holes and bowls of conscience, catholicism and sin.

your passiveness and repentance made me coil and recoil into a dizzied frenzy, feign disappointment and hope. to believe in a rain prayer, to hope in a servile methodical category of sorts, to solve the diaspora of age and kin, to encrust and case your violin life, your Vulcan songs, your tidal vespers, whispers in your neighborhood, in your wifery and upholstery, in binding and unwinding the musicality of your blood kin, refused, abused, deject and defeat in the wake of scrutiny and police. in your metaphor and script, in your life of love and hope of song, i leave your will. your faith in you, brushed, polished, towed and healed in your sliver of tear. in resent, consent, battle peeks, crayon lives and sponge.