The Mustache

An afternoon
Of languid desire
Alone,
Yet with you.
We 
Texted
Of word and work,
Weather and 
Whether to 
Take that quick nap;
Wished 
'You were with me'.
Slow long kisses,
Warm clutching hugs,
Squished breasts,
Ticklish beard.
Feverish embrace,
The primal dance,
A sweaty mingle,
Breathless tangle,
Your wavy locks,
Caught in my curly longs.

We exchange
Each a picture.
I send one without my shirt,
And you pout with a mustache,
Of your whorly inky hair.

Was I?

Was I the spark,
Or the flint,
Or was I the burn?

Was I the cause,
Or the effect,
Or a mere aside?

Was I the stab,
Or the blade,
Or was I the blood?

Was I the hit,
Or the bump,
Or was I the crack?

Was I the bullet,
Or the gun,
Or was I the hand?

Was I the question,
Or the answer,
Or was I the doubt?

Was I the make-believe,
Or the meantime,
Or was I the test subject?

Was I the scream,
Or the shock,
Or was I the past?

Was I the construct,
Or the truth,
Or the unwanted mirror?

Was I a choice,
Or an option,
Or simply expendable?

Am I the wound,
Or the scar,
Or am I the pain?

Am I of any consequence,
Or with any life,
Or am I all just in vain?

Saline

Herding the silences in my mind
Memories mourned the lyrics,
Notes trembled within my heart,
As the song choked my throat,
And rolled off my brimming eyes,
Streaking the ignored stubble.
The pining alto stagnated, as
Its melody dried upon my face.
And all I was left with were
A few broken, saline verses.