Plumes of smoke spike the air with an alkaline edge
he nonchalant in exhale, with eyelids half down
gnashes his teeth in what must be ecstasy
the fierce chemical rush as pleasure seeking neurotransmitters flood receptor sites, and piecemeal expression –
“I am sorry I haven’t been good to you,”
sounds almost sincere, but he’s too at peace to really FEEL sorry
my own road to pleasure is barricaded – and logical applications no longer find the route to make or accept apologies
his disease is like a cancer that infects other people
or like demonic possession trashing the house
where is his beautiful soul? his mind? his manners!
Put the rock down and reach further past the fabrications of mind bending pleasure sip
give to me with pain like I give you this aching heart, and icy detachment
and for how long will I sit benched on the sidelines of love?
looking left and right, contemplating walking off the field
There are better games to play
and ones where the players are fair and equally matched