Jump ship

On a windy, Spring day, when the weather blows in the wrong direction and the saint in me is sitting still,
for a moment,
I lust after
a single carnation cut from a tailored garden the lad didn't own,
a strong hand over the mouth and
complete technological absence.

In the lightness, the crispness of the day
the trenches of ideas one shouldn't have
are drenched in cloth to hide their being there
and I remain, quite rebelliously, avoiding the need in my bones for something disgustingly overpowering

for something that washes the breath from my lungs,
for ever and ever and ever - it cuts me deeper
than I expected
it makes me young,
ruthless,
gorgeous and glorious
burning and constant
grotesque and inspired
something that isn't reasonable, something that never speaks of adult or should haves, something that ruins me and excavates a new, fresh wickedness that is more powerful than before

and then I remember if I had a something like that
I'd suffocate it, crush it, suck it's life -
just the way
he would to me.

So I do what any succubus longing for an incubus would do,
I make another cup of tea and wait
for the wind to change.