Lust

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Some may say the internal desires we clench with desolate desperation are a mere misconception of love.              The slow crackle of anticipation and disorderly trembles flowing and feeding through restless bones.
A smooth creamy sense of longing for the unpromised –
and some may describe it, with adoration.
But in the depths of our hearts
as we lay in a sleeping bag impatiently waiting at the foot of the door.
We know that it isn’t
it’s but a symptom of lust
and that my dear, is not worth dwelling upon.
—Love is experienced in the eye
of a heart-attack hurricane
and I refuse to let you joy-ride
through my arterial lakes of hopeless devotion.

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Shaye Wallace

About the Author: Shaye Wallace

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