She belongs to somebody else now,
but she returns when the sun goes down,
reaching inside my tender chest and fucking with my feelings.
I’m starting to think that I’ve danced with the devil,
she dines on me.
She will be gone with the dawn,
leaving an empty bed and full tear ducts,
and I will leave my bedroom door ajar the next night,
laying out the tools of her torture,
and longing for her,
lost in my limerence.
Kept between a kiss and a sigh,
enchanted by intrusive thoughts,
fantasising about the sky falling,
just the two of us,
crushed under the shooting stars and sentimental moon.
When I am there,
her hands splayed across my body,
her eyes wide and glassy,
and the air full of panic and sulfur,
rather than her wife’s perfume,
that is when it really feels like I am sane.
The pleasure of a slow death beside my sweetheart is so close,
as she edges the door open,
and tells me that tonight,
I am her one and only,
and for a moment,
I feel like I could really believe her,
but the perfume is stronger than my delusion,
and the sky looks a lot more stable than I do.