Sinful

It is so wrong.

So false and yet

you sit on the bridge

between my life and my

Fantasy,

living the path I cannot take,

the pitchfork flame I

do not dare to cross

through.

I think of you in a familiar feeling —

how I felt for him and craved in

the mask of stolen children,

a newborn tailor-made taste

of Evil.

Dissonant lead-lined

conflict gives parentheses

to my emotion:

the brush of a hand that I wanted

and my confusion at what you mean.

It is a brief obsession,

a bending merry-go-round

that wishes to teach me

my desires.

For I doubt my stay with him:

the sense that my arms

hang on to an entity and

not a man.

There is so much of him known —

and so much of you to discover.

A swollen bridge released from the shore:

you will haunt me.