Last Light, With Her By the Library

Inside fleshy walls, wallowing in youth, lava coarses corrosive through peeled licorice onward, fleeing the thundering stone vacillating at the center of a man slugging elderberry wine, to become both numb and Dionysus. Yellow convertibles park on brown-banged boulevards obstructing the ravishing, glacial blue hands. They stretch unassuming, but firmly grab my empty arms. Mannequin pale, those twin starved orphans, offered the chance to grow into men, to feel rushing gales of breath, trembling limbs of love! Goodness, grace incarnate in a smile. Blue jeaned angel, the deliverance of a self-loathing leper naked in the shadows of his own shortcomings. Ravaged, I stand stoic; an amorous, wounded statue on call before her, a tragic hero in vain, battered in body, in spirit, in moonstruck mind, ill with the drawing force of four hoarse scotch-swigging demons, poisonous jealousy of a starry eyed Italian gondola captain. Who am longing I but Nobody, wishing for a crack to melt into, or a shatterproof heart.