.Urge.

.Urge.

Across the table, wasted, she asked me to write her a poem.
Staring through my haze, grinning, I thought of whiskey wisdom.

In the hollow of her collar bone, a droplet of sweat,
began to descend, like my thoughts, to dark places-
and as she slept I recalled, what lead to her bed.

‘An urge, pure, creeps out of my corrupted soul,
flesh bound, dancing tendrils and no spine’,
is what I wrote-

but what caught her curiosity, felt like cliché.
I told her, no words of mine would do, simply,
I have an urge; you.

-