Convenience Lovers

A brief poem.

Convenience lovers,
only connected when the time demands,
fate is a myth made by the ancient sages.

It was by chance
our lips met,
and the primal need made
necessary by biological sanction.

We were convenience lovers,
the way I could pick you up like a pack of smokes,
let you kill me slowly with your sweet caress,
and have nothing to show but blackened organs,
and hot red nail lines falling down my back.

We punched the timecard, clocked out,
went home to our shitty apartments and filled ourselves with poison,
and slept with a restless twitch in our legs,
telling us we should have stopped,
long enough to not long for each other.

God how I wish it was convenient for you
to ensnare me in your trap.
Wrapping your arms around me.
And I’ll watch as the ebony ink slitters off your skin
and become the rope that binds to some other reality.