When does ennui capitulate to the senses?
Your inky silhouette breathes in me,
A mesh of butterflies blacklisted,
Heart prepared as a cigarette,
More debris than clinical substance
I watch you roll away again and again.
The wall cradling your patient limbs
May as well be wedged between us.
Your methodical kiss
Smells of condemnation.
A soul rendered inert
In the idolization of a single channel.
A bookend pressing your angles close,
I will never have the strength
To include you in everything that I am.
The unwashed, unsaleable suicide,
Your shrunken frame has only organs left to lose.
I fall away, flailing in hopes of generating
A farce of warmth no longer inherent within.