Puppets.

You scare me with your silence. I could shake you, slap you, put you out of your misery, carry your tune in my step or hold you till my breath dies . But you wouldn't feel a thing and I'd die if you said something after I've given up for this one last time.

A Hundred Times

It happened so quickly. Pressed against the wall, your hands locking me down, all I saw was a blur. I could hear you take short, sharp intakes of breath while I dared not even blink. Your eyes burned into my bowed head and I fidgeted till you quietened me the only way you knew how. You leaned in until every inch of me acknowledged your presence. When I finally looked up to meet your gaze, you slipped your hands into my hair, softly stroking them and I died for the hundredth time. You didn't stop there though, oh and how I hoped and wished you wouldn't, and you didn't. Your lips nudged and teased my earlobe, traveled down to my neck, licked the entire length of it with a slow and deliberate trawl and you stopped right then letting your lips rest on my nape, while you let me catch my breath for a moment. Your eyes shut tight, you had your lips pressed hard against my skin, waiting as I made up my mind for the hundreth time but only this time this wasn't a dream. And it was with that realization that I sank to the floor, but you stayed there, watching me bite my lips in confusion. What happened next, I won't ever understand, but there I was on the stone, cold floor with the man I had hopelessly given my heart to a hundred times over, disappearing into the glowing dust that danced in the faint afternoon light.

And there I was waking up from a dream I've just about escaped from a hundred times and more.

Words

they come crumbling off the pages

spilling more than what I can hold

forming puddles of reflected light

that splash out into the receding memory

of your flight.

leave no trace in the wind, nor in the

breath of the lover left to revel in his

all too heart wrenching, solitary existence

bereft of encircling arms and comforting hollows

of warm flesh, that could speak to him in even

the deepest sleep of the darkest nights.

come unasked for, like you. A pulse that quickens

with every premeditated typographic flourish of

your everyday babble, can only take me so far as the edge.

And then there's a slight push, that comes gently

from a gaze that flickers with the afterglow of electric

backlight, that I can't see but imagine, till it awakens

a response.

possess moments with startling vengeance, hiding

them from us in layers of glorious, seductive, infinitely

murky possibilities and we succumb like the

house of cards we are, destined to grovel

at their feet until we may utter them no more.

Muse