Is it any wonder how the lesser now at best allows a sense so dense that sheets feel tense, and heavy on the belly of the everyday disguise that rumbles with a hunger, and sends tumbling his eyes, lolled about and rolled throughout the wetness of his mind, a blind grind, spit n’ shined disgusting kind of kind that doesn’t know it’s mocking as it’s fucking from behind; it’s as designed, it’s as designed, the better the devil you know, lest find yourself accomplishing transcendence from ‘just so’.

The trick is to have just enough to rouse the raw, and rest the rough, and hold, and hold, and keep it fed, lest wake the rested, festered dread that bends the heavy bottom shelf – it waits for me to less my health – and not but fifty feet from here, the train blares high (and low) in fear of lost, of poor, of tired souls who head, who sink, who long for holes.

Sometimes we find ourselves encumbered, sooty with our tribulations, heavy with our trials, loomed over by mountains, and tripped up by molehills; our hands and knees are grazed and stained, our faces flecked with dirt…

So burn it all! Tear off your clothes, and throw them into fiery pits. Come roar with me in flame, and shame the hurricane, by comparison. We’ll blow and torch it from our skin. We’ll watch it sizzle, and scorch, and spin…

At last. Not a sound but beating hearts. Not a tree or blade of grass surrounds- just us. Just… now. Just blackened earth, and ashy sheets. Just glowing coals, where once were eyes. Just red-hot poles, where once were bones. It… emanates, eliminates, and consummates the act. We let the winds brush off our skins; our souls, revealed, intact.

We cool, collect, breathe in, accept.

We rise, redress, breathe out,

Reset.

I wish I’d cooked you breakfast; toast and eggs, layed out in bed, and spread like butter on pancakes.

I wish I’d bought you flowers; pink and red, all preened and stemmed, on the table for when you come home.

I wish I’d cooked you dinner; candles and wine, with plenty of time to relax, to unwind, to entwine.

But I commit to much more than a day, to much more than a temporary scene, for I intend to begin and to end every day with you kept like a queen.

And every day will be our Valentines, for as long as the winds kiss the sea.

It is not a “given thing”; these words shall not be owned. Your past may prove it tameable, but love shall not be loaned, or whored out for the price you paid for failing to address that value in your words ain’t made by how they can undress.