Lust

the night smells like desperation,

cheap, like gas station perfume

on the neck of a woman who’s done pretending,

and in the twisted eyes of a man

who’s forgotten he ever loved.

she looks at him with hunger,

he devours her with his eyes,

but it isn’t love,

not even pure lust.

it’s that filthy thing

that drags us through the sheets

like touching strange skin

could erase the shit in our souls.

the first vices were pleasures:

a wet mouth,

a bare leg,

a moan stolen from silence.

then came the excess,

and with it

the void.

lust has no gender,

it has teeth.

and it bites poets and whores the same,

men in suits

and women who pretend they don’t want it.

we are beasts,

fucking between laughter, sweat,

and promises that don’t last

longer than the cigarette after the climax.

she wants to feel something,

he wants to forget.

and when they’re done,

there’s nothing left

but two warm bodies

and a shared loneliness.

because in the end,

the flesh burns,

but the heart does not.