"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
A craving, like love, slices through my body.
This agony of waiting, it is this which kills me in the end.
this pain or pleasure, pleasure in this pain you take to extreme
like a shot of poison, a heroin injection — zipping through my body
Calculating itself as my companion.
Making its home in me, I plea with agony and beg. This love is torture and yet its move
Sets me free, but traps me in its dark walls and recesses. Wet and cold.
damp sets in as we grow colder, we grow older, we grow duller. duller, anaesthetised
sensation less and unfeeling in the end.
the dull thud of ending is just white noise-
Maddening, methodical and yet unlined.
Our broken bodies host this organism, this psychotic thing called love
this leech sucking each molecule of us.