There is a viscous sweetness to good pain,
a tongue tip probing of a barren gum.
The subtle thrumming in your chest again,
the swallowed urge to douse the fucking sun.
It lays as embers in the furnace belly,
defies regard, reproach like turning wine.
It sifts as fallout, rusting pleasures gently.
Decaying simple silence, after time
it comes to be the quiet.
It takes the place of air.
You come to fear the hollowed place,
if the hurting wasn’t there.
It’s strange, the urge for sharing never takes.
The lust to gift the suffering won’t hold.
It flickers idly, sun glint on a lake.
A mere, thick watered, taste of iron, cold.