The Scars of Your Blister Cold Kiss


Exsanguine, in apathy.
Washed out, parched,
Fish belly white, for lack of blood or sun.
A hollow grey resemblance
To the tanned skin passions
And promise once rampant in our veins.

Then the afterthoughts,
Curdled remains of impassioned afternoons.
Sundays craving Chopin and Mozart,
Crepes oozing with raspberries and cinnamon.
Turned to sour claims,
The scalding stains,
Fevered shame,
And the scars of your blister cold kiss

Tortured now
I am wordless.
This?
From cells that once roiled with dream
Now tepid?
Ambivalent?
Stir the pot!
Do I even rise to your surface?
Do we matter one whit?
Just to fade with the shadows, ghosted
By the dawn's tepid light.