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For that important addiction...

You Are My Cocaine

Picby Marc Lionhart31 Jul 2014

Where I touch, you, where I lay you upon a hard wooden surface
Roll up a fifty, fuck I'm not that rich, roll up a five and lift you up
"You're fucking dust my dear"
I love my white powder woman
She stands in my doorway wearing nothing but expensive perfume reeking of seductive production
I inhale her
I am addicted to her
"Get that sinful body over here and ruin my life"
Miss, missy miss miss
Lost all coordination when sucking her in
Met her at a barn party with musicians and meth-heads
Never knew poetry before she entered my system
She embodied decades of poisonous abuse, like she was a deviant queen
When she's around, my tongue is always out
I salivate too much
She cradles my head gingerly with a nimble pattern and loosens my grip
I stroke her in return as we transpose warm expressions for miles of undiscovered terrain
"Can we slip into non-existence together?" she doesn't understand what I mean

"I want to be known for a thousand actions"

A solid hour passes and the air thickens, the aching becomes lucid
I can barely move my head, it weighs a million tonnes or thereabouts, so I waver between plain sight and merciless terror
Just a few more minutes of this and then I'll tell her no more, tell her goodbye *snort*
*snort* again

Her kisses thicken
Her caress lessens my core and awakens a blood-red fog that escapes through a hatch in my head. A dried up tunnel
Never seen so much money. She coyly whistles her siren, I am shrouded and my personality shrinks like a withering Apricot in the bitter frost

"You, my angel, are my Cocaine. You are my addiction. Do you sleep as well as I do? Maybe better. I lie awake and count the moving lines on the ceiling. Darling, it is your face I see among those lines. You, along with me, dancing with burning hope and creation. Can I feel anything but elation? Not with you, in me, out of me, inside my head. My one, one of a reawakening to my soul. I blame myself for my addiction to you, you prepossessing fiend. Scatters of relative morsels of yester-perfection. The come-down will be hell, but worth the magnetic embrace"

Sits longer, stares harder and said gaze begins to pierce my skin like a hypodermic needle with a blunt end. I could only bleed snow this time.

I take her out for dinner...