we lay in vampiric deadlock, my muse
and I teeth-deep in each other’s hearts, blood
tepid gelled and sluggish from winter’s blight.
she loves and needs love like any other
maybe more so for the wreck her life was made
by the machinations of selfish others . . .
and the I inside me jarred like some eighteenth-
century specimen dusty yet contained
protected from the world as so the world
sheltered from it. love me love me love me
we cry into life’s wilderness night as though
alone were damnation itself . . . and each
echo, each answering cry, each reply
a poem fix for junkies of romance . . .
3 Feb 2014
David M Pitchford