In genderless solitude
My heart exhales the scent
of new asphalt and fresh paint.
If only I could become
Recreated:
if under the scraped knees
was the lifeblood of my
Affection,
tart, yet sweet, and filled with
the thousand seeds of
Germinating Possibility.
The mirth under your
effervescent Skin
deludes me, a form of
worship and eternal
Unclaimed salvation.
Your promises of sugar
to coat my sour fruit
are always half-truths,
when even Spoken.
I drive my life in your
Direction, but you eternally
Steer in the direction
of havoc, opposite mine.
Is summer coming to
the Azeroth of my heart?
The strawberries die
on
the
vine.