just another pile of brittle bones made of kindling, kerosene for blood and paraffin wax for eyes, devoid of life but yearning for flame

a laissez faire scarecrow perched on the side of life’s back road, crows perched with little regard to inane regularities

she was slick with desire, legs grinding together like a cricket, bottom lip bit and flushed cheeks, unable to quench the fire burning deep inside, unwilling to try, her eyes closed, head tilted back towards the ceiling, awash with thoughts and desperate for release

he stood in the corner, consumed by the fire raging across her skin, this fever one he felt so intently, wished to toss himself into, only wanting to be consumed by her but he was propped up like a storefront mannequin, unable to interact, a dead pan stare that screamed come hither and slack jaw impotence

the sheets billowed in the exhalations of empty want, a category five gale of bitter discontent and meaningless moans, she sensed rather than saw him, and he was incapable of movement, her hands moving about her little form, his eyes doing the same

as the wax ran in rivulets of hardening dismay, embers of past egregious misunderstood promises of eternal devotionals

like hauling water in wicker baskets, growing lighter with every step on the mossy path to nowhere closer to home