How was I supposed to know
it wouldn’t have turned out like that-
that you would never love me.
You took that fickle little piece of passion,
and melded it into her.
A fragment, she is.
Nothing more than processed lithography.
But you loved that dirt and grime,
ached for that flush vial of grease.
You didn’t crave my warmth,
didn’t beg for that
sliver of deliriousness I would gift you with.
It had been madness darling.
Fingernails clawing under skin,
your words turning moon tides into stone-
I should have known.