our hands don't touch this is

our hands don't touch this is
no touch the thought of you just
slaps my face, the other cheek turns
red, i run or is this running
wild your thought of me?

i write out of some dreary
lust, a withered
craving, knowing you
won't read a thing

when lust is trapped
at the inside of lust
the lust engenders horror

look:

this hand now hands us
nowhere going nowhere
while it used to think
& therefor be
you but now no

we intertwined
we interlaced
we brought our
bleeding selves
into this world

the running shriveled to
this dying hand where its
dying runs dead
& all must end