An intruder is among us,
Shipwrecked with an intention to be lost.
He lives for the day,
For tomorrow is a queer illusion.
A certainly undetermined soul,
Piggybacking on high society.
A free ride doesn't come cheap.
He smells of whiskey and cigarettes,
He tells a good tale too.
One of a three year-old genius,
Another of an artist man made of snow.
"One mustn't be happy," he says
It seems desire is the source that drives the soul.
He took me hostage in an undone chamber,
There we lay, musing our fears and fixations.
Exchanging secrets foreign to the lips,
We are introverted explicators.
I study him in the light of Sun,
His body as a canvas.
Skin stretched tight over his bones,
Reveals remnants of his voyage.
A premature camaraderie formed.
Home now, already missing the thought of him,
The smell of You lingers on my skin.
It would be a crime to cleanse these sweet kisses,
A sin I must commit.
Slowly reproaching a far too common reality,
I sit jaded and depressed.
In a hurry, I attempt to archive this fleeting feeling,
A circumstance of a faulty memory.
I suppose this is my perfectly normal compulsion,
To encapsulate the thought of you forever.
For this I apologize,
But I am not sorry.
