Valence

Writing of you is likened to eating raw chilli by the pot,    
stationing oneself in a lush garden  
and vomiting that love back up  
over dried hydrangeas and a defenceless crocus similar to involuntary fitting.  
There's something in longing  
for fondness doused in rejection,    
binds of destruction too comforting to untie.    
Truth spills over a precipice in increments, overflowing when it rains,    
a pipe to human waste,  
hounding toward innocent seas.    
That said there is musing and a reality, somewhere,  
everytime I try to see it,  
your eyes settling down on the sunken pillows of mine  
I drown  
in great lengths of flatland, shame
and thick, Northern snow.  
Though to believe I didn't love you,  
to think you didn't know it  
that reality is easily as cold    
and as emptily  
expressed.