Woman, your beauty is divine
I can only recreate it in my hands
Crooked
My thoughts
Come
From Floating orgasms
The pleasure principles
Your paleness speaks
Volumes
And I didn’t hear a thing
Your eyes stare at me
Or am I even here?
I finger them
And you’re enucleated
You see from below
There’s nothing above it
And if you can
You’re reading too much into it
And you smoke too much
Lungs turn corrosive blue
And if I turn to hold you close
Escape into the mirror
Dissipate in your reflection
You can’t hold onto what can never be…
© A.R. Minhas 2018
