My sordid hands feel too pure
Under this new clean slate which
Dirties my lips and tongue and arms
As I long for her and all her charms

Oh, the mess I made with only
My words, was a lover’s mess
Wasting precious, oh so precious breaths
Complimenting her hair, her shoes, her eyes, her dress.
But a lover’s mess made clean
Is worse a squalor than all of the obscene
Words and breaths wasted on petty and useless
Endearments, like my love, my dearest, my queen...

For now this unblemished heart is
Too mended, when I long for the piercing of
An arrow to cause the red splatter
Of affectionate bloody to spill onto her
But there she remains at a distance
Her whiteness tarnishing her existence

My lips are too dry to speak words
That would normally complain about my tidy palms
Now I feel a wretched emptiness that fills up my arms
And I jump looking at the backs of heads
That are too familiar in their blondeness and
I hope for them to turn around
So that I can hear the dinning sound
Of high-pitched foolish compliments
Which supply me with a painful soothing caress
With memories of a lover’s mess.