Tango's and Waltzing
It was a bloody mess,
murder,
the kind that does not kill
but stabs on and on.
You get used to it, want it,
it keeps you alive
the way some poisonous medicine will.
We slammed together, bruised,
pile-driving through explosive flames;
we were yoked to bridges
ones that lowered and arched.
Desires clawed ribcages,
delved into our secret marrow.
Some love poetry
becomes the aromatic attar
of a perfect rose,
while other’s ends in greasy stains
over wilting ego’s,
both are worth it.
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