Obsession

Walking away from an embrace,
partially content until
you remember how you forget
to fill those nostrils
with a smell
that still remains a stranger.

So it's back to the painting easel.
Dropping your trousers
to your ankles
whilst photographic memory
fades in to nothing more
than a hand working away
at a mundane task.

The cock drops against the thigh,
the trousers are pulled back up,
a cigarette is lit
and the streets are prowled
for another shot of it.

For now there is a purpose;
one of torment.
Children crying at home
wondering where their mothers are.
Men drinking away their futile passion,
until we all join hands
and forget ourselves
for that rare moment
we spent so long
obsessing over.