deliver me

this is not OK but what about her unspoken anvils
heavy hearts
like her feeling something else than the sexual desires of strangers
its always the same thing.
A repetition.
so,
it has to end this way
while its still fresh with the warmth of life
what is death if it is not fresh.
soon this will be grey and cold and slowly forgotten piece by piece detail by noise.
but the frustration of spitting when i try to cough out the words i mean to say keeps me shaking as the moment is gone and the experience forgotten like the kites hung twisted on the wires melting in the heat of time.
we don't get to be better in the past
and all we do is invite walls into this wide open space.