the freight train in the middle of my head
         blows the whistle at your stop, every stop
                              resting witch face,
           pressed against the glass
                             waiting, waiting for what
                      I do not know.

there is a film, so gaudy and clouded,
          enough to see through the illusion
   not enough to hold it back
                           susceptible to the night,
             maybe that’s why Nyx chose me –
                    maybe that’s why I bleed –

sometimes it is like someone took a knife to the soul
             and yes, you cool my desire.
                                         contentment sways her hips between the two –
                     perhaps we are always meant to be on fire.