There are no tricks
with a broken floor inhabitant.
There isn't a word beneath a word
if the tongue is a servant of the heart.
There is no stifle for a case of such:

I am no longer a part of you.

Do my lips disappoint you
to abandon another last kiss?
Even without the past feeling,
but even for the pure joy of saying
I have kissed you once again.

To even graze against your skin
feels a forever holding snowballs that won't melt;
that across you face they no longer skate,
my fingers live an incurable ache...

Does my body not satisfy you,
to let it beat another encore?
I am threadbare without your spindle;
a spare part of a sensual shape.

Without a touch that feels like
being baptised by cathartic rain
I wither to crumbs.
If this were a game, we'd call it a draw.
Whose the winner of two minds
no longer in sync?

But this is the penalty for insecurity.
I shall never again embrace
goosebumps that shatter like rows
of porcelain glass across my arms
(into my heart)

You have planted unwarranted need
in places you ought never have been.
I have been yielding memories I ought
not to have kept; I surrendered tears that
ought never been wept.

When the sound of whistling wind
is akin to abused violin strings,
you will be reminded of my strays and strands;
you will not just be reminded of me.

That my skin tears upon a drop of laughter,
the contents of my chest should fall out.
And therein lies the solution to dissolution.

Be a man. Take my primal shard.
Cast it out to the orange glow of
autumn's fading sunset; and with it burn the
tender secrets only you should ever know.

There are no tricks
to a broken floor inhabitant;
I have loved
and I have lost.