Nicholaus Albrecht |
Of his lips I’ve tasted – I hollow at the bone,
dig my claws his shoulders as he gluts himself my throat.
I search for him in nothing, the static soft-swept space
left wanting foul of flesh and bone to taste.
My ear begets his whisper, skin trembles at his quake.
He moves,
I wake.
He disappears with haste.
There’s no warmth to mark his passing, I ache
in treble beats his memory to trace
with fingers. Lies no ring nor promise to devote,
Just hunger, just need – desired and bemoaned.
There’s fullness in starvation, nourished blood runs clean,
incomplete and blistersweet…