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Image for the poem If his punchlines had a face, it’d be mine…

If his punchlines had a face, it’d be mine…

I saw him loitering in the corridor of a 1770’s bookstore, waiting with a steady heart and the breath of life that spills all over me like shimmering glitter as he anchors himself whilst no one else is looking, and I’m drawn to his obvious proclivities, and the way he licks his lips as the letters of my name tumble out from his divine mouth, beckoning me closer to deep dive into his transparent pools of everlasting devotion, and he touched the wilderness within my raw and tethered me to his heartbeat like a slave to his love.

He’s kind, gentle & loving, and this one is gonna hurt as I feel it in my bones when he’s pinning me beneath the weight of all that remains unspoken, wrapped in the vortex of his presence as he plunges himself deeper, and the heat of his blatant intention seers me until the flashbacks of another lifetime flicker like a slideshow screening on repeat, and I’m bound as our bond remains unbroken yet familiar in the knowing that we once lived, in another lifetime.

How can I look away as the intensity of his gaze, coupled with the knowing that there’s shared history unlike any other is hypnotising, magnetising & polarising, and my crown tingles as my sacral responds to his presence, and I saw the scrolls of past life timelines entwined, trigger an unexpected collision like neurons splitting at the seams, hot & wet, leaving me breathless as his lips latched upon mine when I gasped at the width & length of his intellect.

Even Plato blushed at the golden hues we emanate when we break ourselves on one another, like a tag team sport limited to 1:1 opponents, and he lets me in on his secrets whilst making me sigh with every push & pull, merging like atoms that were destined to charter a course once charted before, and where do you run to release your burdens whilst laying your sword down, during an interlude, only god knows.

And the prelude is founded upon timelines i simply can’t fathom, or maybe I can, whilst mastering all the little things that make me - me, luring me to bathe in all the little things that make him - him, and he remains cloaked in a mysterious veil to conceal the ever-glow that spans aeons, and my senses are heightened, and his authority undeniable in knowing we’ve been there before.

Cut from the same keys, and divine intervention is in motion, and I can’t chase him beyond the horizon when dawn breaks to speak life into the hairline fractures that shattered one’s soul when the break occurred, and that’s exactly what life does, eventually it breaks even.

He’s a lord donning the mask of someone I don’t recognise these days but I feel him to the very core of my being as he calls me to come home to a house that belongs to someone else, and I don’t know whether to be offended but I’m conflicted, there’s a war unfolding between the heart & psyche, and divine intervention is the only thing that stands between then & now, and the landlord is a gluttonous arsehole but we laugh at the inside jokes, he’s precious yet dangerous.

All I can do is look at him, and be happy that he’s happy, with someone else. Women, marry for protection & security, instead of love but I would sacrifice my self built walls and the security system that keeps me safe, just to taste his brand of love, once again. It’s a hunger that words cannot define, like a rare delicacy, only few will ever taste in their lifetime.

Just a mere thought triggers the scent of him to waft past my nostrils, and the blatant synchronicities assault my intelligence, and I want what I can’t have, and he knows it whilst playing russian roulette with his heart, and he’s a masochist just like me, we just can’t help ourselves.

Yeah, he’s a bit like that, and he knows exactly how to get under my skin, whispering words that weaken me, and I know exactly what happens, and how much this is gonna hurt as I always pay the price for things just like him, and he knows I can’t resist his temptation, stripping my senses bare just to fuck me senseless from Sunday to Saturday several time a day, all over again.

He’s like a drug, and I want more, and he knows he’s my drug of choice, perverted in all the right ways though you wouldn’t think he could whisper the word cunt when it matters the most whilst biting me harder with the intent to draw blood, and that’s the punchline, knowing you can’t draw blood from a stone yet his perseverance to resurrect my filthy heart leads me astray like an alley cat running wild on a hot tin roof, with nine lives already exhausted.
Written by shadow_starzzz
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