Anathema

Neat, neat.

you thought everything

would be neat.

every detail,

every move,

every thing 

was coolly calculated.

But I found the snag

in the wool.

He rests on a pedestal now.

He is your Dalí.

He is at the forefront of your mind.

Have your sockets grown tired

from your eyes darting left?

You and your stenching lineage

might toss around the words

Jealous, possessive, Odd,

lesbian!

Hardly. Don't let your

pastoral pomposity

devour you.

Has your tongue grown weary

from all the 

silver mountains it's had to climb?

But I,

a kitten to milk,

lapped them up,

licked each claw.

The fight would be futile.

You would bask in denial

and I would drown in

undying disappointment.

In a fortnight I'll be gone

and you 

will never know.