To attempt to romance nostalgia’s mask
I press my face to the glass, and mimic every move
via pill, swill, and powdery trash consumed.
But assume it keeps this head unturned,
and the rotting trapdoor above the worms
from falling through.
Divine is the locking of lustful eyes,
though only ephemerally do the fixations align;
and as the Siren song of elation
escapes your lips,
the illusion of separation
for a time.
But the ideal does not feign eternal,
for even the warmest limbs entwined;
the blackness, inescapable, lulls nearer;
by ourselves, to be pulled behind.