Addiction.You are loved,like the last cigarette from the pack.Probably the first of the dayWhich could very well be the lastOr not.Who knows, really, which you are, which you will be.You are sought,you are wantedwith quiet longingwith surpriseand then with much eagerness.That you have remained,You, the cruel reminderthe never forgottenthe embodiment of a momentof how moments should existaware, vivid, infinitebut not before longYou are loved.You are lovedfor the way I crave,you demandthat I gasp for breathtake it slow and savour you.You are loved,for a moment, lovedquite unlike the rest.You are lovedbecause you, too, shall endbut then--this one, the next oneyou could put a stop to the chaseor just make me want anotherand wish every otherwas every bit like you.
Stinger.“Do you mind if I lit one?”, she lights her cigarette, not waiting for an answer. “Oh, surely not. Not like I’d care if you did.”“This is your house, Madam.”“What a barbed young brat!” she giggles. “Do you smoke?”“I will have one, Madam.” He reaches for his pocket nervously and revealed a thin packet of cigarettes.“Of course! Make yourself comfortable or else I’d shame my profession.” She mutters inaudibly and smiles to herself. Ellenore offers to light his stick, brows way up her forehead with mild amusement. It’s been a slow week. This boy might very well be her first and last client for today. At the very least, she will make sure of it. “Oh, I’m sorry, you asked something a while back.”“You go by the name Ellenore Givens. Is that correct?”“Yes, well, that was my name. Why did you have to ask, shocker! Aren’t yo
The (Poison) Apple.I fear—that I am too emotionally-charged,full of unnecessary things(if we must use that adjective)that scare you awayEven I would not wish to deal with so many all at once;But you, sweet old you, are ever the exception.I desire not for you to do the same if no such urge begs youFor you are not Iand still(and because of that, too)with all the heart the screams within me,I love you.These piecesI didn’t know laid beneaththey float to the surfaceAnd I panic…I—I try to hide them!Instinctively.I don’t know what they are but—I don’t know what they are, you see.Should they be where they have gatheredMust I do something?I don’t know what they are but—I wouldn’t have noticed them if I truly knew not,Don’t you think?And this poemAnd those poemsAnd the poems that will beThe odd string of wordsThis sudden shame and shynessAn unsettling kind of awareness(And these darn parentheses!)The eager
My Lover is the Ocean.What happens when the tide reaches me?Should I dip my hands into the foamingwaves?Or move my feet away a few stepsand tell it,“I see you, and I am content;let me be with you at a distance,tease me with your beauty and your depth.Let us dream of each other,ache for each other,but touch not” ?What happens when the tide reaches me?And my legs run to meet itLike a childhood playmateI’ve never been able to resistWill I, should I,concedeto the glaring lack of choice in the matter?(My, my.)Would I so helplesslyhappily—Oh! Eagerly–With such thirst and much colouringwrap my arms around your neckand weep, for I have missed you;And shall I stop to thinkwhen here you are and I am consumed.I see you come,and I stay,waiting, sighing—in the darkness, in the lightas you swell and subsidewith as many stormsand as many songsI surrender.