Christ, I can't wait to write to you about things that have been happening to me, but for now, the memories are still too young to write down.  Instead, I'll give you something that might be able to tell you better than words.  So much writing has been done and needs to be done, but right now, I just want to remember. I'm ashamed at the way my voice sounds, scratchy from cigarettes and so young. But this is the best expression I can give you right now. More stories, more poems, and more about everything going on in my life soon. But for now,

"In Your Snare"

Their hips rub so violent; the sound of the train
calls haunted and violet down Memory Lane:
the cocaine down on Main.

They act like a poem from Charles Baudelaire
& bound up the stairwell with nary a care.
On his dare her skin's bare.

Oh, they can't abstain; the swain pours some champagne.
The passed time and sorrow is their proudest stain;
Tom looks in through the pane.

She finds panties to wear, sits him hard on a chair,
& runs her sweet thigh on his skin, soft and fair.
Their fixed stare: answered prayer.

The voices remain in the sad song's refrain
while blood rushes scarlet from his neck's blue vein.
"Lion's Mane," sweetest pain.

She sings out a line from a play to the air;
his skin feels the delicate touch of her hair.
This is rare, such a pair.

& this sort of love his raw heart couldn't feign.
Her tongue on the metal of her lover's chain.
Lust will wane; love will reign.

Her fingers, his jeans: oh, such sweet despair
will surely in time this mad distance repair.
"In your snare, only there."