Confessions of a Delusional Realist

Yester night,
an old amplifier whispered your favourite song to me,
while I — helplessly and excruciatingly — let my lover
touch, kiss and invade the gates of my body.

While I — torn between the realm of fantasy and flesh —
was struggling to prevent the tears
from flooding my naked eyes
with the bitterness and distress of my soul.

You exist in the air that surrounds me,
and — like a whip — bruise the whiteness out of me;
a serpent that rattles along the barren earth
and stupifies me into a carnival of senses, a kinetic daze.

But as my eyes close, darkness is not what I behold•
for I encounter myself on the edge of a precipice
and below it — mighty as a god — the Abyss;
you and your voluptuous grin embracing my fall.

My existence is bound by fear, and my skin by fire
but my heart is chained by Hope•
so my descent into the unknown will either
be my swan song or the ashes from where I will be reborn.

Hold me close enough to keep me distant,
and grant me the consent to linger into your thoughts.
My starving mouth will always be hungry for yours
whether you become mine or remain hers.