I so don’t want to drag myself back there again.
Playing pick me up, all those broken sticky bits.
What about that don’t you get?
Are you fuckn listening to me?
How dare you invade my dreams with that ’ touch me’ smell of your skin.
That ….that smell of us.
No matter how much distracting perfume I douse my mind with it only becomes an exorcism of pallid weak tea.
For months the rubble of my unused, uncut, untailored thoughts have fumbled around in my dreams.
A lyrical lunacy of meaningless mumble jumble, a contented zero on the emotional impactus scale.
It was your neck that first appeared last night, my tongue traipsing in wanton search of your mouth.
To kiss is without contention a sensual affair but then there is the kiss that opens the will of something primitive but refined all at once.
Kissing the one that your heart has dissected all of its secrets to, slowly sewing a love that has no mirror into each others breath. Your mouth is left in the ache of those sweet tasting secrets.
And I don’t want to feel that need, the birth of us was long and contracted and we were stillborn in the end.
SO get the fuck out of my head!
Oh am I to be Lady Macbeth with that eternal dam blood stain of us on my heart?
Get the fuck out of my dreams!
I so need the heat of you again. …
© K S Hardy 2010
We sleep while our dreams play with our thoughts.
Can we delete the thoughts we don’t want anymore?