I Still
Hey, honey-darlin', are you listening.
I keep on telling
you its alright, and I forgive you
as the sun goes down
most every night. Forgive
the lack of attention, of affection, forgive
how very, very
long it has been
since you loved me right, since
you held me in the darkness, in the
shadows, or even
in the light.
I linger
alone
in the submersive words you say, on the
soft, places they reach, deep, always
knowing those sweetly reconfigured letters --
anagrams of the words you meant to say --
give just enough sustenance
to get me through the day, but I
can't forget they
don't mean
anything.
Your rough-scratch gravel
voice might slither
over, slither round
me
rubbing those all sharp letters
against my pale, thin skin but still
your rough-scratch gravel voice doesn't
cut me, can't fuck me, doesn't even
bother touching me, doesn't
mean a fucking thing.
It can't reach
anything deeper than my
heart beat, your wagging tongue
licking slickly at my brain and it
doesn't mean anything,
any
fucking
thing
to you, but still.
I want you.
And still, I want you
deeper,
and still, you
can't mean a fucking thing
to me.