You carved out a sphere of influence right at my central belief
in nothing.
The visceral nervous nerve strings left behind are knotted
rubber bands and thinking about you causes them to stretch and snap me back to
a reality that you no longer inhabit, even peripherally.
I’ve never been so conflicted and confounded, so close to
abandoning the lone lighthouse post I never thought I could yearn to leave;
You are the Hulk Hogan to a cotton veil of will power that I
pretend hides my intentions.
I think that if I douse them in alcohol the smell might
scathe the directing scent the hound of my intuition follows.
Though the rocking ship rum burns in my empty stomach, it can
hardly overshadow the hunger pain with your name on it.
Withdrawal is worse than the bender and you are no exception.
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