the freight train in the middle of my head
blows the whistle at your stop, every stop
resting witch face,
pressed against the glass
waiting, waiting for what
I do not know.
there is a film, so gaudy and clouded,
enough to see through the illusion
not enough to hold it back
susceptible to the night,
maybe that’s why Nyx chose me –
maybe that’s why I bleed –
sometimes it is like someone took a knife to the soul
and yes, you cool my desire.
contentment sways her hips between the two –
perhaps we are always meant to be on fire.