Diablo

Useless brown rizlas, the taste of liquorice, sitting on the table.
My foundation falling from my cheeks due to heat. Summer shining
through the conservatory glass and claiming, melting and ruining     
my chocolate bar. I wait until he wakes    
       
from the futon, still covered in my perfume,
and inhales the sea air from our escapism act. We have such outrageous, tragic good fortune.
It plays on my strings. Echoing
through the closed windows, and the beads that roll down my face.        
   
He's never coming home, like the bee that dies     
after stinging. We sit, or I sit
with two glasses and only the remanence of wine
like the remanence of our summer romance. Yet he's        
   
home, bringing the Spring back to my step. As I
take nervous steps so not to wake him,
I've missed these warm, sunny mornings, that bring a glow to our pale flesh. Is he still in love with me, or passing        
   
time, while on a drive to another place? Should I allow my paranoia
to control the refill of wine, the kiss in the morning, the touch at dusk,    
the feeling of vibrations whilst his hands control my electric feel? I stare
out the window and howl silently for a sign. Will we        
   
ever consummate this fated meeting? Or are we destined to be friends
who touch? Diablo, my seeking, sneezing thing
walk away. Walk away, this time, before searing me with your weaponry -    
I am not your decoy, I am not your test dummy. I'm awfully fond of you and being your friend, as well as your lover, makes me understand    
why.