smell

sweat, sarcasm and cigarets,
the smell of you,
is in my every pore,
curling down my back,
drawing me closer
to the buckle of that
snakeskin belt
slung low on five loops,
an exquiste caress of pain,
because i smell
the reluctance too, you know,
you don’t want me.

your beautiful hands,
that i’m holding,
in an aimless taxi ride,
are hoping your phone
will light up and rescue them
from my rough, life-scarred fingers.

you never look at me

directly, so i won’t see
that teeth grinding mix
pity and loathing,
but i know it’s there,
and there’s anger too,
because you know somewhere
inside that head of yours,
there’s a fleeting memory
of you and me.