[Un]Holy

Day breaks on those Parisian curtains,
Freckles and scars illuminated along

The creases of your form
Rising, falling, plunging 

Through the incense [holy!] atmosfears
The leather gloves, my silent gasp,

The nails tearing down my back
Rip me awake and I dare not close them

I can’t bring myself to distractions,
I want to be consumed by those parted

Lips all bloody rouge with Shiraz,
Limp skin sliding off 

Like those paper-barked voyeurs
Peeking through the panes

Stained with the fog of the next morning,
That film-grain same rotisserie sunrise,

You tried your best 
To talk me out of it again

Rolling over then,
You checked your phone

Something strange was in the air
and Notre Dame is burning.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: