The deeper the t(h)rust
The deeper betrayal cuts.
It’s always a running joke that
When both your personas
Meet with both my identities
We’d have a blast asking the waiter
For a table for four.
When the day’s end beckons
The sun lulls, a languid amber
With it, thence, one writes
A new story’s chapter.
When the daily becomes
Refreshing, and senses
Are wide open, the fresh
New sojourner revels and
Old gems are rediscovered.
An abhorrent sign
Perhaps, of time passed,
Moments left, degeneration
Yet nonetheless
An intricate mark
Perhaps, of time lived,
Moments loved, celebration.
He turned around and lay on his back, shifting his weight a little to make himself more comfy. “Too bad assassination is not my forté,” he mused, his eyes staring towards the ceiling in audible contemplation.
“It’s that I don’t like gambling and have no licence to kill…”
She turned onto her side and watched him intently.
“They can die another day.”
“… and planes. Then again I can learn, I mean diamonds are forever, and tomorrow never dies.”
“Well you only live twice…”
“I’d like to tell you how much I love you though… but the world is not enough.”
“… and with a view to a kill, you would, the living daylights out of me.”
He leaned over and looked into her eyes gazing into his.
“You’re like the man with the golden gun with these puns.”
“Well, they won’t live and let die.”
“No, they won’t.”
Her eyes flickered, a hint of a smile on her lips.
“And I, for your eyes only.”
The seed that blooms
Shall branch and grow
Yet remember its roots
For to which it owes.
Your fingers all tangled in
My hair, your breath strewn
Wild thoughts in my mind;
Your tongue a taste of
Convoluted lust, and you a
Sweet mess, the torrential kind.
Awl and Scribe 