Untitled

October 1994, updated June 5, 2003

"Press your lips to mine.
Press you hands to me,
anywhere you need them to be," I whisper.
"Shut up for a while.
Shut the lies."
And you say to me,
"Cross over the line of safety."
There is no other craft
as delicate and torturous as your touch.
I think on two thousand moments
that rushed right out of time.
"Nothing I ever said was a lie
at the moment I said it," you lie.
No perfume, no incense, no oil
can hide my diseased need burning,
leaving a rancid stench behind.
I wrench you out of my head
but only for a moment's purge.
The secret wanting returns all too quick.
Wanting you is all I sense in my nonsense.
I wanted to hate you, came out loving you,
still want to hurt you, brings on my own pain...
I hear you whistling the lies I long to believe.
I feel control slip away from me,
and into your embrace
I will fall,
every single time you ask me.