I have liquid dreams about you,
watching your face appear
in a smoky haze,
I would enthrone you as my noir lover,
if I did not know you would balk
at the offering.
You were never born to be King
however I might adorn you,
laurel leaves upon your head,
hanging bones around your neck,
I would exalt you.
It is beyond you to be debonair
however I dress you within my mind,
but I like to think of you
smoking cigarettes in bed
amid the tangled sheets and naked limbs.
If only you could be my paper doll lover
but you never learned how to dance the tango,
the predatory instinct is absent in your eye,
and you remain placid but troubled,
stranded in an in between that is too great a compromise.
You never learned to hone the killer's instinct
and you stubbornly evade falling prey,
so what is to be done with you?
If I run you will not chase, and if I hide you will not seek,
if I push you will push back but half-mockingly
with exasperation in your eyes.
You remain unapproachable
as distant as a statue,
when I touch you
you are cold,
and I most provide all the fire
but you refused resolutely to be warmed,
though your mind I may devour,
earnestly you spill it over
your body remains beyond my touch,
and your heart is a puzzle box that I cannot solve.