These Arms Of Mine

My buttons missing from our tryst in the woods
and your knuckles are swollen again.
I can never be just happily surprised, you say.
My cardigan is also torn in pieces and parts
I'll never find, they too are as your kind
gestures, lost now in space amongst debris and
prayers.

Going insane is a date for us, every night,
often twice. We try to make it work, I apply
lipstick to the swollen lips you like to pull
towards you and draw love, and blood from.
Of course you try too, you take me deeper into
nowhere and nothingness every single time,
pulling me along like an empty carriage
to carefully trip me over branches just to
catch me and kiss me.

Leaving me just behind in the blanket of night
and sheets of foliage to rest, recover.
Your fumbling hands, swollen again, dragging a
cigarette from it's pack. You shakily comb your
black hair back, relinquishing evidence of
dishevelment, releasing a gust of fog from your
mouth.

My hand rests where you left it on my breast. I
press a handkerchief into the set of teeth-marks that
brooches it, you say it drips jewels, I love that.

You remove your grey and black pin-striped shirt
slowly letting it fall neatly behind your back,
knowing I will follow you with my eyes. You look
to me from the corner of your eye, cigarette being slowly
sucked to ash, like my patience: so
heady and secure. You succor me, take care of me.

When you come towards me; making me tremble like the
moon in my watery eyes, ash falling and singing my
bare skin, I don't mind anymore, I don't mind.