Woman on the Ledge

My memory reels a roll for independent underground theatre. Simultaneous view of vapor streets blanket my selfish regret; how quickly the present comes undone.

Condemnation of brooding insecurities shuns this woman I informally address; I desire absolute devotion to intoxicate my vitality. My body sinks into black leather skin; steel spike puncturing heels transverse a nervous bubbling spinal cord, vein circulation is a motionless pose rendering me reclusive.

I desperately collect dispersing treasures from the lion's den; kingdoms often fall to ruins.

Perhaps I should not wrap around her arm as red stripes to a child's aesthetic peppermint candy cane illusion too sweet to be without cavities; black hole suction of the universe we escape just to be together.

"Jump! We want to see it! Yeah!"

"Is that really what you want? You want my blood? What do you know of blood or do you always secrete without thought?"

Abstract impressionist visionary searches for sanity as the mind entangles a world's delusion until every membrane sours rotten; I choose a skyscraper ledge to balance fear and hopelessness, a scale without median. Scattering feet is a cognitive response my senses know of him often juggling situations inside transparent snow globes.

"You always look away when you should be listening.......where do you go when you are here?"

"I feel as though my body is present but my thoughts are in somebody else."

Eyes of the eternal sea find me, sand washes away sediment; no man is an island but a woman can be a desert no adventurer dare explore.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

We may presume passion to be chemical reaction of heat from flesh bound by an act of skin yet never reach ecstasy of awareness beyond touch. Led by infatuation of underwater dragon hums the deeper we dive the further we find ourselves inside unknown earth dreaming another shore.

Obsession varies degrees of a temperature gauge; there is a stopping point we must commit. Passing through a busy highway is not enough attention for traffic.

We die in each other's arms to find each other again; now I am without her arms. Mysteriously the walking dead lives amongst the living dead to walk alone. Confusion is a map I desperately piece together; I am lost despondency.

A woman without words is a force of nature which cannot be led astray without destruction; will this be final wisdom for feminine essence, the form left behind from an urgent flee to escape?

Do pads of heel upon toe still fascinate smooth block legions above cemetery jokers desiring purification from red droplets of my lips?