Still, I fantasise about you
I wonder how much pressure?
I imagine that sound, the sound
the sound-man sound, the mimic
how much pressure would it take
a lunge or just steady and constant?
I would talk you through it, my love
my faithless, mutinous, heartless lost love
I would ease you to the floor
we could share those last few moments
you might profess sorrow ~ me too
we did discuss the consequence
fair’s fair, why should I remain broken?
23 years: the age you lied about
the age you were, an untruth
the age our baby is now
the number of years I’ve suffered
23 years, sounds innocent out of context
Twenty three, the cost to you, the cost to me
best consigned to memory
a sperm donation, a price, the fee?
of fantasy, a young man’s vanity.
brocsilva 