LD2

If love is no more than a bit of leftover acid in the cerebellum, let me bury the nose of my not-yet-corpse into your body.

I stroke your hair, drier than the wind that blows through the door: How will it's wood taste? What will the brownness feel like, gliding down our throat - or will it stick,  giving us splinters in the larynx? By that time, we won't care, I suppose. Like passion for a lover, hunger will come upon us - our flesh will swell with its glory, our stomachs pull inward like the clenching of thighs, and we will forget - what, exactly? Happiness?

No, we have long since forgotten that - along with love, sadness, and all those other human emotions. Like the true animals we are, we fold our days into the struggle for survival. We scrounge around for food, the way we used to scrounge around for lovers - it all comes back to sex, I suppose. I want to say something corny, like "I have left certainties behind". I want to write poems about kisses and flowers. I want to lie: to lay, here, stroking your hair, just a little while longer.

Can lies rot like flowers? If kisses burn like wood,  I don't mind this conflagration. But if not -

Can you please hand me that glass of water? Thanks.