There's this part of being in love that sucks you in and ruins you when you're spit out. All at once the galaxy opens with warm possibility; and that heat burns until your worlds in flames. The ecstasy of being in love is as evil as a capsule but as freeing as a trip and I'm fiending for your touch.
And when the bells and whistles cease there's a distinct smell of misery across train car floors. The kind not nostalgic of teflon tiles behind hospital doors. It's the same pungent hopelessness that clings to my hair like the wind. I only whip it away when you fuck me like the dog you are (we all are). Shake off after the fact and off will fall the ashes of livelihood and drips and tears of misery from my feral fur and pour out into a concrete impediment for us both.
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