The course of true love

I choose how to use the striated muscles of my arms,

Who to reach for, when to hold myself,

But the smooth muscles of my gut I do not control,

The peristaltic waves of wanting, ripples through my core,

I do not author. I only feed.

-

Hungry, I mistook the muscle of your heart for smooth,

And placed my fingertips against it,

Wanting that frictionless glide to be beautiful,

Figure skaters viewed from a distance, seeming effortless,

Not recognising that you were letting me slip.

-

You dragged me across the glassy ice, bejewelled, spandex slick,

Falling as you pulled me towards you,

Forever in retreat. But crystals catch, and face down,

I saw the flotsam locked in place, the dark current below.

I heard the shell groan, the fissures crack.

-

You mistook my smoothness for softness, rabbit-eared

Beneath your lips. My sublimation

Rendered me ethereal. But cold condensed me.

My deposition rimes us both in hard frosted crystal,

And the striated muscle of my heart contracts.