She comes to me in the terrifying night when I need her the most
She is there by my bedside, in the morning, to start me on my day
She is warm, she is enveloping
She owns my body
She owns my soul
She is my lover
I put her in the old bent spoon
The flame underneath
She bubbles, she boils
In goes a small piece of cotton
The syringe brings her ever closer to me
The old belt goes around my bicep
The vein bulges
Now I bring my lover to me
Smoothly, the needle enters
Smoothly, my lover comes to me
She caresses my entire body with her warm glow
Our love has been consummated
She is everything to me
I will never give her up
She is my lover, she is my life
Gross! At first I thought it a romantic ode to a person. Ya got me.
If you think that was gross … ya should have been there.
I can’t even imagine.
Nice twist. Hope it is fiction.
That’s all I write, fiction. Fiction from experience.
Ha ha ha. The line is very thin at times.
I think there are too many people out there who can related to this poem…
Yeah, and I’m one ’em.
Trick or treat!! Ya had me fooled, nicely played and as good as anything else you’ve written!
I reckon so. Sweet memories.
Yes, and people wonder how I could choose clean and sober for the past 11 years over a relationship such as this… because being my OWN lover and life has proven to be more satisfying! <3
I’m my own lover too … but that’s another story.
Fiction from experience makes for great writing, Andrew! Christine
I try.
Andrew, It sounds like you are no longer there, and I am so happy for you, if I am correct.