i have a mouth
like sugar on fevered nights,
and my heart is a museum —
truthfully, my mouth is vinegar,
and my heart is a mausoleum.
the mantra plays on its loop
until disbelief clouds the sound
there are no fevered nights,
no sugar —
no honey, or wine —
only desolation.
on dismal nights i find myself
scouring weathered books
and leather-bound journals
for my score of matches.
my tinderbox soul
searches for the fire to burn into oblivion
or into another’s mind for all eternity
as the girl from my unattainable desire.