Your taste is bittersweet
on my mind’s tongue.
The hero unsung.
You drift in twilight’s fog
into the voiceless dreams
of despairing hearts.
You breathe momentary life
into “what if?”
and by dawn you are gone.
You are everything I’ve ever wanted
to run away from.
And yet I wait curiously
perched on the edge of my seat
for the slightest brush of your air
against mine.
I want to breathe you in,
but your smoky composition
is recycled and stale.
I require more,
but might have settled for less
had I watched the sun rise
through your strands of hair.
If only your words lingered
and rested in the midday
crinkles on my pillow
while the soothing rotations
of the ceiling fan
cooled our damp sheets.
Instead, I am here alone
waiting for your image to dissolve,
into the sweet aftermath
which follows your bitter bite.