Fingers. They move in places
where words would not be caught,
but dead. The broken letters find a place
between warm skin and cold hearts.
Two bodies with minds that float into a guilt free world,
contort in ways that make me wonder at night.
Bodies smashing together, pounding at words and promises
that were never meant to be rebuilt.
She felt special,
but which girl wouldn't love to be rammed by a handsome
diction.
In a condescending manner, they don't smile, or maybe they do
just to re-assure each other that what they're doing doesn't hurt.
I agree with their motions, it doesn't hurt, it kills.
Dying from curiousity which I use as a dirty paint to
create cynical pictures that no true love should see.
So, while street lights throw a dim aura
through my bedroom window,
I think,
did it feel that good for her?