He distracts me

His hands could be clocks
Ticking away hours


Is this what I want?


Is this what I dream?


What do I dream?


I'm afraid of that, the shadows of my wants.
That hover like the children I've killed in the corner of my vision.
I feel them breathing on me.
I don't look but let the fuzzy shapes hover there
Never taking substance.
Never being.


Like desire
Or passion.
The greater more that's supposed to drive us.


Then there is him.
And I feel pain in the pleasure.
A horror in the want
That something bad is about to happen . . .



Oh, fuck it.
. . . Why not?