Forty Minutes on a Wooden Bench

You underestimate my ability to need someone more than you expect; my weak and weathered wrists up against the blue whirlpool and thunders in your irises as they contracts and expand – (with desire or anger or confusion?)

Always my biggest weakness: my utmost and overwhelming affections and life imagined, but constantly needing the ache of your past so I can remember my faults even if I had not yet met you / the sane are insane and so am I. Such as maybe, light chestnut hair aglow in continental sun, but now I implore that you accept my pulverized words in place of cowardice. My knees that go numb in the dead of night, that too, always choosing pain with pleasure but never one in isolation and for that she will taste like sweet clementines and I, stained with blood orange instead (bitter) so who would blame you?

In the very end, my your our pleasure, pain and most of all, power is but the terror of my disquieting heart of hearts