Stillborn.

Dead, are you dead?
Your voice, it was sick, the cold kind.
But it was the same, like I heard it
Close to my ears, closer to my shoulders.
Asking if something happened,
Answering, no nothing at all
I just fell out of love. And you lost me.
Though this sadness of a loss, is better.

You, you are alive I know.
Alive in your imagination, construction
Disassociations feeding our love and these pores
Open night and day to breathe in truth.
You are just an addict, I am your poison.
Pretending to forgive, hoping to love
That night when I slipped away to another bed,
You didn't notice my different smell.

I climbed onto these cushions of flesh
Mattress filled with hair of men
Their nails as the edges to a deformed bed.
Not sleeping on it, just lying, and pretending
Pretending to make love to a statuette of young illusions.
Like I had to these men I now climb over.
Lover, you should've come over, they had said.
I went and tried, one more time. I never 'came'.

My muse threatens to leave after these endeavors,
After the times I come back from seeing you, and you.
She threatens and expects regret, I show none.
No passion, no fear, no love, no hope.
Women get dried up easily, the fertility of their heart
Doesn't last too long. Hoping we'd begin and give birth again.
Forgetting the still borns that still lie in our drawers,
Feeding and relieving, remembering when I had felt a heart.

Meals.

One.
I was young when we first met, he never did anything special. Neurotic brown skin and eccentric black hair, added on to his well built earthy body, akin that glistened like polished with wax. He was the first to attempt my consummation  but unnecessary trouble he had taken up. As I fell in love with his flesh and bones, he fell in love with my distorted soul. We pretended to ignore what we saw and went feeding what we hoped to devour. He failed. I succeeded and now I remember him through that silky pallet.

Two.
His flesh was tender and voluptuous, and I tried not to go too hard. He worked for a group of mechanics, they said they were building bridges. I wondered how mechanics would build bridges, but I really didn't care much. He walked into my shop on the corner, asking for a diner and his face, those deep brown eyes were inviting me to join. And so I did. I run a shop of food accessories and old bad paintings. Sometimes I make them and mostly I pick them off from few men I have known. We met twice at the diner, and thrice on his bed. He was a good listener and a lover. He 'was' and I remember how he tasted.

Three.
He was dead in places, and I was liberated. My hands reached out to him by mistake on the sidewalk once. He never let go of it since, never. Not even when I wanted him to. I have seen people liking bruises they have on their bodies. Bruises that turn black and blue because someone held them too tight. For few months I liked that too, but then it started to bleed. And I was enraged. I climbed on his chest one night, kissed him with all the passion and fire he put in me. Held his bright hair, pulled them back, unzipped him and rode him the last time. I rode him to my table, where I would finish it off and devour him. I don't remember how it tasted. I don't want to.

Four.
Walking down the street one afternoon, I see these couples on benches. Smiling and kissing, holding on to corners of each other's clothing and making a tight grip. Rushing and moving hands from back to waist to elbows  grabbing and grasping, moving and resuming. I stood staring at these beings, when my eyes fell on him. He sat alone. I didn't tell him to join me, but we met at that bench every alternate afternoon and looked at people. I think he had, wants or found someone, because his sadness was approaching an ending. And when we talked we slipped our stories into each other. Soon, he found out too much and offered himself, as that approaching end never came and he wanted to disappear. I felt sad taking him away, but he pleaded so I fulfilled.

Five.
He was profane, I am profane. We wanted to love. He wanted to kiss. We tried, never succeeded. He gave up and I devoured.

Six.
I do not feel the pleasure in the act anymore, but it has become a fulfilling habit. Something that I cannot get myself to stop. I see gorgeous flesh and vile thoughts begin to occupy my mind. I tried resisting this time but he looked like a sister I once had. She was mean but loved me deeply, so I had too.

Seven.
Its just one more.

Eight.
One last time, I promise.

Nine.
One more after this and I'd write me my death note. I cannot continue, because I do not feel anything anymore.

Ten.
....

Moth.

My lover's life is that of a moth.

It runs and flies all around, tirelessly.

Its wings flutter and their sound echo my life.

Its failure pleases, as it drowns in me.

Laboring night and day, just to once feel me.

Consummation, is its destiny he knows, and yet

My lover struggles for more. He makes promises

Bets and swears on his life, tells me stories and fantasies.

Weaves dreams and of places to go, sings songs

And promises of memories he owes. A lot of love and

Not much to speak. He whispers several sonnets in my sleep.

And keeps me waiting for many nights.

Hopeless helpless, few may pass, I wait for him.

No appearance, and then comes another. I try not

But grow fond of him too. What happened to the love gospels?

Ah! He promises, but thou himself does not last forever,

For my lover's life is that of a moth.