“i think of you in terms of hysteria” By Weasel

the moon hangs empty tonight
leaving tall buildings
and sharp sins to shelter us

under busted street lights
you lure me closer
lips cinching
tongue plucking teeth
leaving the taste of maraschino cigs
the taste of tobacco with class

my fingers climb the stairway of your back
but you have eaten too many thorns
your stems have grown jagged

i slice my hand trying to get inside you
dance the tango while you make the earth quake
you were obliteration
pulling apart our bodies

yet this is what i crave
dust and debris piling in my throat
the taste of our home crumbling into dissolution

you slipped away from me
left your last words on the concrete
they were the shotgun shells
pumped into my gut

the last delirium that will never heal

Weasel is a degenerate writer who received his Bachelor of Arts in Literature at the University of Houston-Clear Lake. He currently uses it as scrap paper to fuel his two publishing imprints Weasel Press and Red Ferret Press. www.poetweasel.com.

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