Tasting it in proximal breaths.
This is dangerously within reach.
Conducting the fruit down the vine.
It’s nothing to be proud of this time.
Unchecked as ingested in the bitter pill
left to swallow in a vacant bed,
ashamed of memory’s tattoos
igniting limbs to flail fluently in desperation’s language.
Testing it in brushes,
stray grazes at the edge of sin
absent of substance in it but misguided intention.
You’ll find a way to go too far.
You’ll find the opposite solution out of loneliness.
Is it a thrill to spin it around your finger?
See it as a blazing thought to open up the mind’s legs?
It’s nothing to be proud of this time,
but for the imaginary scent
dangerously at the tip of the tongue,
and your wayward lust is salivating.
You’ll find a way to ruin her.
You’ll find a way to ruin yourself.
( ❤ Mitch)