There are but tears in my pocket, gallons that hold,
withstanding great pressure, tight in breath
my lungs fight air in cautious ways,
asking no eyes to bare sight of searing sugar on my toes.
I did not ask for good fortune as I stir my thoughts of you,
it isn’t a negotiation to live, just a few.
Licking my lips in blended nerves and lust,
no swoon or sigh can lighten my trust.
In skeptic sweats, I hear your spoon beat,
trickling down your chest, no beg nor bleed.
No word give or take,
rather boiling silence between steams.
Awaiting an ended pleasure these cooked thoughts,
matured to vivid truth in sticky pots.
savoring in wincing pain,
only but a life in separate trains.
Piaspurpose 