Your diaphanous neglige, wrinkled, wadded in your purse
like your intentions.
My sycophantish responses kept latent as well.
We both know what we want but won't bring it to light
for fear of the moths of destruction
that might flutter about it.
Yet we still stick together like the needle
that intravenously delivers life to the junkie.
Simeltaneously we become bruised
like track marks.