I wish I could say,
I knew you would be the one for me,
so us holding hands
wouldn't feel so arthritic.
Silent strokes from a digit,
wouldn't scream like a heart,
when a knife is poking within it.

See, you came at a time,
where Love's fine line,
was a monolithic barrier,
composed of a rusted engagement ring,
scorched bible pages,
and satin comforters
saturated
in the finest juices of a former mirage.

And for now,
I embrace the focus its rancid stench gives me.

So, please, only hold me from afar.
Kiss me
in your fabricated memories of our future.
Reflect on ways you've made bedsheets,
the initial canvas to sketch a relationship;

View me

as I view you:

temporary whore,

and find your ideal...elsewhere.

O.Y.D.