Litkicks Message Board Archive


Posted to Action Poetry

i have grown accustomed
to the slick oil
of weekends, and hours,
of breath trickling over legs
weary from too much work.

made friends
with the inkling of fear
that crawls through my blood
when we're alone.
when the love is gone,
hung obscenely over
my porch-ledge,
beaten by rain.

all too familiar with
the film over the mirror,
from lack of use
or attention.

breathing grey
and tasting fire
--never filling the void,
--never killing this.