Untitled

Untitled

By: Lone Wolf

He lived as though unlived and breathed as though there was no breath

And smiled as he had a million things not to smile about

And as he filled me as no other could

I was empty and alone

Stranger day’s upon me I weeped of sorrow and sorrows sadness

From undoubtless reason I gave him reason

But no eyes could see his

As he’s could see none but himself

I would have loved him but there was nothing to hold

And I needed a hold on a holder of me

Whom would never leave

And when could I touch you after a thousand rains had cleaned you

But never were you clean

And I remember you

Even though I have nothing to remember

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New

By: Lone Wolf

There were changes in the arms that held her at night and in the profiles she made out in the dark beside her. There were different rooms and other beginnings in other beds and each time it happened there was something the same to be pressed against a new chest, to know the bright flash meeting up with the secret untapped person who appeared in kissing who said come with me I want to do for you what other’s haven’t. Come with me down this shadowy hall, just you and I down this passage; let me take you into this universe. The face appearing up close surprising to be so near, and giving her jolts of animal fear, not of what she was doing but what she was becoming in this world. But she would not run, soothed by the warmth of new hands and the swell of the new man, not letting on kissing the new mouth, which though it had familiar elements of other mouths, was more new and different than familiar; would let herself be lulled, then would recognize in the eyes, the drugged look of another man who thinks perhaps you are what he has been looking for and she’d think remember this look now because one day it will be gone, never to appear again, soon it will go; and being stirred would be able to return to stare. Her body taken along, her heart maybe a little behind, while inside his head. What were the mysterious thoughts, what else could she do now, him removing her clothes saying how beautiful she is, his hands getting into everywhere. She was soft, and small. His hands were hard. His breath quick on her neck. What else could she do now that it had started? She would have to go the whole length of it now and who knew if it would be long or short or thick afterwards or how pale or how much pain would come. It was a dark whirlpool pulling her along, sweeping her. She saw the secret in him the way he pulled her, the way his mouth was impatient. Her hands were shaking. It was past the time she might have stood apart and taken his measure. Now she would see him this way. Now he would be harder to make out. She could only keep going, could only hope as he lifted her, placed her there, that he would not stop too soon. That he would keep going. That he would do this forever and never stop and when he did stop, that they would have been carried far enough along with the water still coming beneath them and the water not stopping that it would not stop now that maybe this time there would be enough to keep carrying them, enough to carry them along forever, enough to make it last . . . . . . . . .

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