Billowing across her face....
.... pillow soft those lips I taste
whenever we get close.
Subtle scent that dissipates.
Funk that cannot be erased.
I cannot ignore her chase.
Obvious as when one craves
what they aren't ready for.
Seated ready for a new dimension
but intervention looms..
Not like she found me
speaking loudly in these quiet rooms.
Not like I found her
through the shroud that is this cloudy room.
Not like I'm able to easily
detect her perfume anymore.
Either way,
time extends the day
when she opens the door
but air does not embrace me.
This is too much.
I need distance
but I can't take it:
Too much distance.
Close to touch as blood may rush
but I may choke.
Too much smoke.
Planned I have to tell the truth
but when lips part,
low hanging fruit
silences tone and inflection.
Peach flavored sweet confection
dangling in front of the tongue
that cares enough to tell her.
Days I would regret her
end up with us feeling better
doing what we wish...
...dish served warm beneath covers
but my lover loves her habit
just as much if not more.
Not so lonely when that door creaks these days.
Told her it would kill in hope she'd panic
but instead,
she raised her head,
said "It's organic"
as if she planned it.
Don't understand it.
Thought something was wrong with me.
Just before she'd come for me
and after she'd cum for me
she'd reach out for some comforting
but not without consistent light.
Not without a cough each night.
Not a day salvaged in hope
that we would rest without a fight.
It's not right but we're not wrong.
Annoying like your favorite song
drawn slow through ears.
My recent fear indecent
just for what it means:
It would seem I fear for health
but like the rich still chasing wealth,
I run after the feeling
without revealing the shame.
We are the same:
She's aware of a tension so fresh.
Strands of her hair
like the grain of her flesh
enveloped by this barrier.
My heart is unfit to carry her
but what love won't raise
lust will hold down.
What will be in the end
won't be known now
or much later, hopefully.
I hope that we can heal.
Broken bricks can build nothing solid.
This love is real
but love this violent
is fatal when passive.
We don't have much beneath these ashes...
Written By: Devin Joseph Metz
speaking loudly in these quiet rooms.
Not like I found her
through the shroud that is this cloudy room.
Not like I'm able to easily
detect her perfume anymore.
Either way,
time extends the day
when she opens the door
but air does not embrace me.
This is too much.
I need distance
but I can't take it:
Too much distance.
Close to touch as blood may rush
but I may choke.
Too much smoke.
Planned I have to tell the truth
but when lips part,
low hanging fruit
silences tone and inflection.
Peach flavored sweet confection
dangling in front of the tongue
that cares enough to tell her.
Days I would regret her
end up with us feeling better
doing what we wish...
...dish served warm beneath covers
but my lover loves her habit
just as much if not more.
Not so lonely when that door creaks these days.
Told her it would kill in hope she'd panic
but instead,
she raised her head,
said "It's organic"
as if she planned it.
Don't understand it.
Thought something was wrong with me.
Just before she'd come for me
and after she'd cum for me
she'd reach out for some comforting
but not without consistent light.
Not without a cough each night.
Not a day salvaged in hope
that we would rest without a fight.
It's not right but we're not wrong.
Annoying like your favorite song
drawn slow through ears.
My recent fear indecent
just for what it means:
It would seem I fear for health
but like the rich still chasing wealth,
I run after the feeling
without revealing the shame.
We are the same:
She's aware of a tension so fresh.
Strands of her hair
like the grain of her flesh
enveloped by this barrier.
My heart is unfit to carry her
but what love won't raise
lust will hold down.
What will be in the end
won't be known now
or much later, hopefully.
I hope that we can heal.
Broken bricks can build nothing solid.
This love is real
but love this violent
is fatal when passive.
We don't have much beneath these ashes...
Written By: Devin Joseph Metz
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