The Harrowed Heart

Only those with the wisest minds and weariest eyes remember the days of love truly lost.
The woman with the rage speckled iris, the man with the world-heavy curved spine,
Holding aloft thy heads as the wisping breaths of each memory tortures and threatens to crack.
Like mere puppets dangled on a string are they.
The heavy ambiguity collapses the lungs, The heart torn from the cavity from such pure and sheer anguish
That one would think thine eyes had seen many a scorned sky.
But nay.
This is neither scalding storm nor bloodcurdling encounter
Tis nought but mere consequence
Consequence that comes from tasting the sweet nectar of a goddess’s affection;
The honeycombed effect of forged kisses under the stars;
The rippling shudder of the pulses as skin meets skin.
Eyes caressing over mounds and peaks of soft flesh and pray!
My sweet, sweet lover the smell of youngling dew
As one awakens from the deep, soothing slumber that follows
Each blissful frolicking under the devious eye of the tangent sun.
Aye.
Thy beauty is but a hideous monster scarring the vessels of the ventricles as they lay.
But as sure as day and as righteous as the gods are we addicted,
Like fresh salt in a wound after the heroin high.
Pain crashes blindly against the unravelling ribbons of sobriety
Lustfulness takes under like the crash of the star-spangled wing on the wave;
And you my wistful lover! My dearest hysteria; Are the amphetamine to my harrowed heart.