It’s the poison that kisses, hard and square on the lips.
It’s the poison as a disguised kiss, kissing hard and straight. With a hit and a burn, with many more venues, but choosing this one.
Foreign lips pounding in thought. Visiting, passing, robbing me at every encounter and leaving the loss.
Throbbing loss is the poison. Hurting in an unimaginable way, in more than just a pain. Hurting in a thought you never expected to ache for. In a loss of air in a spot you never held.
It was poison in a sunset clustered park. In a kiss, but all that’s left is loss and a bench.
Kissing in benches, hard and straight.