A sordid verse

This poem is a sad poem,

a sordid verse,

too sordid for rhymes,

lies,

apologies.

I entangle myself with her because she is my obsession

and with her arms locked around my neck,

her thighs pressing me closer still,

oblivion approaches.

Her lips part

blushing crimson,

divine and moist,

release of warm flesh,

a transubstantiation.

I hold her hips, mount,

deeper still, clinging,

a mountain never to be conquered,

a hidden chamber,

a rising chorus of passion.

I bite down on her shoulder

to try to draw her out

further still into our primitive game;

as she digs her nails deeper

she spurns each tomorrow.

She never speaks,

closes her eyes,

bites her quivering lip,

limbs intertwined,

bodies flowing together.

The struggle reaches climax

so we surrender,

bodies shuddering

stoned erotic and divine,

we fall into exhausted embrace,

relented to the hunters within,

stars collapsing under time’s weight.

Then silence,

a profound silence:

I live for this moment.

This silence is more complete,

more faithful,

more perfect,

than the deafening silence

when two lovers go to war.

The toilet seat was up

again

and she suspects another power game

and I wonder how

I have become her enemy

again.

Lovers can be tyrants:

they breaks each other’s hearts

as they try to take back

everything they have given or lost.