The convoluted way we love one another,
Is almost as abstract as one of Jackson Pollock's paintings,
The colors swirled, your lurid thoughts,
Matched to my introspective of paranoia pairs us together.
Our hands, our bodies intertwined,
Melded like quicksilver or mercury suspended in water,
Behind these walls we hide our story arcane to all,
Your lips meet mine, with a need for passion in our banal lives,
But is yet to suffice our urges.
But yet, none takes form,
And alone once more we hide,
We've saved ourselves from lurid lust,
But have yet to seize the desire our bodies have created.
The wanting of someone who will meld,
Once more into a tangent of Quicksilver dreams,
Our hearts pounding, as one,
Dreaming that he's here holding you.
The jersey knit of his sweater,
Back on your shoulders where it belongs,
Along with the whispers he sweeps into your ears,
Like dust out of the door,
You want to hear him; his voice,
But it's gone from my heart,
Your whispers have died like the passion.- it's absent...