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.