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
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