Hemlock

There’s clean sheets on the floor
that don’t really matter because
He had hands like hands should be,
eyes the colour of penance which meant simply that
I needed to kiss him. To swallow him whole and regurgitate his
smile before I could even remember his name.
It started with a stare, like so many things do,
a panther watching the prey before he pounces and when he did
lord he caught me earnest,

with eyes beating suicide and sometimes springtime sprints head
first into the wall of winter, and we never know what to do
with ourselves besides stand still with our hands behind our backs,
pretending that this pain was a pain
we had learnt to numb by now.

But now his name was a warning sign on my tongue
and each fire bolted bullet hit harder than the first one
does because that’s how it always goes.
It always goes the way of endings.
Suddenly, I find myself like Socrates
gulping the hemlock in one go and the
loudest of gasps was the most epic
I told you so…
Well yes, yes you did darling,
and
It hurt, but it never hurt the same
as his hands on my hips, calling me
Angel,
with every light switched off completely. With only one
god blinded to a devils darkness.
And thus his name
became the largest scar in the ocean of comfort
lying across my chest.
Oh sweet darkness.
Come back sweet darkness….