To Imagined Unknown Lovers

Lips numb with deathandlife, 

I never knew what you wanted to do to me and I wanted you to do it so painfully, 

though we met as if through one-way glass when you gave me that brief, single-sided stare of lust that I missed entirely from across the room perceiving only myself in my thoughts' reflection, 

but which pierced through the crowd, 

glissading between the napes of necks and chins like an arrow through twelve axeheads to reciprocally pierce the target of your retina, bullseyeing for an impossibly tiny instant my oblivious face. 

I tell myself now that after you've gotten over your glorious infatuation with the flesh of my flesh, I can't possibly still yearn for your chimerical cunt and salivate hungrily in the deliberate delectation of its unknown scent, 

the rosette of tissue tickling itself between your legs with firm, sanguine pressure. 

I still grasp it with my tongue and mind together like a vice of yesteryear given up long ago, 

but never forgotten, 

wistfully returning to my consideration as often as a dolphin's head crests the ocean's sloppy surface to exchange air for air. 

But on the other hand, fuck you, whore. 

And that is why, my friends, love poetry sucks.