Lying on the floor
my hands are shaking.
Is it lust, greed, or gluttony
to want more of this aching?
The tiles underneath me
are dirty ice.
I hear my heart beat
like it desperately wants this story told.
Off beat and off key.
Not quite making it to my fingers.
A vessel burst in my eye, lost my glasses, can't see.
Lying here, pathetic, but the desire lingers.
A mess on the floor.
This isn't pretty.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.