Those Midnight Infactuations

Those Midnight Infatuations 1. You're the water on the phone Sun that I crave. To become the dopamine blocker in my brain. 2. I am the minuscule rolled balls of lent you pull at on clothing swiftly thrown away making nerves skip over your skin holding hand in hand. 3. My feet knotted with yours but as the moon hits the glass of week old water on the oak nightstand it shows you are just another shadow I have glued to my side. 4. The tip of your dry cracked finger traces the outline of the old water ring stain. From whisky glasses next to the bed. Quick to turn back around as he comes back in the room. 5. Hot water consumes you as liquid swirling around your shriveled feet turns crimson and all they can say when arriving is they did all they could but I guess you didn't love me enough to stay. 6. You became a permeant nettle deep in my limbic system and the only way to remove you would to get rid of part of me forceps tick the folds of my brain severing most ties to the rest of my body but you would like that wouldn't you? 7. The distortion lens you blinded me with is the reflections I see in coffee only to get muckier as you pushed me away until the very end. 8. The crevasses of your skin crinkled like dew-fallen paper left outside for too long when the folds in your lips cracked when you smiled shame the only thing to see that is dirt.