The thought arose midnight

somewhere between

the witching hours of deception

and the sparkling thighs

that rubbed away

what was left

of her common sense.

Ignoring the blanket stretch of solitude

reaching for the sweat

dripping from the threads of her hands

the thirst of her shadow

descending from the heavens like an angel

waiting for her to open herself up

so that the incarceration of her heart

can be weighed against the gold of her patience

she could not have been less wise

than to let deception

play its numbers on her skin

like melting pearls

sliding down the creases of a well-worn backbone

that she traded in for a brief moment

of Black Orchard or Issey Miyake cologne

though neither could wash away the shame

to which lust had gifted her thoughts

and the rose petals aligning the secret bath

to which she has mixed in her cup of distorted priorities

only smelled of death

in becoming another

she failed

to become herself