No one ever talks about the ache that dusk brings;
the most difficult conflict
that begs to be resolved between the heart
no, not really,
even though it’s known and felt
and experienced— like the tasting of forbidden fruit,
savoring the flavour
more caustic than the darkness of vanta black.
I tire of windows and walkways,
for hungrier thoughts that reside within his pulse—
one taste is never enough,
I realize as thulian pink slides down my throat,
there is a human wildness held underneath,
mysterious and brooding,
sometimes it smoulders, sculpted by the winter wind
for the things we want but cannot say—
ravage me without regard,
sing the song of the soul over and over again,
do people still adore each other nowadays?
I’d like that.
Inner demons seek to possess with their own kind
a searing touch that brands as its own,
wake me with fingertips trailing down
upon my skin,
be the reason I think of things all beautiful,
it’s much too easy to become lost in despair,
I am of the opinion that
forgetting you would be like swallowing up the sky,
silly and impossible,
and so I keep you close, my mind,
of all your smiles and warmth seeping into—
several kinds of orchids grow here, with hellebores
under the shade of psyche,
how many times must we cross paths before
you become mine?
There is nothing more that I can say,
no one ever talks about the ache that dusk brings.
Photo credits: Close-up of Moth Orchids by Victor Candiani, Pexels.
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Posted for Poetics: Songs of Unreason @dVerse Poets Pub