Predictable

The commonality of previous loves

Was that their dramatics

Drove pen to paper in a gushing forth of descriptive passion

And what you dismiss as too common use of adjectives or the

Over used metaphor. The clichéd. The naive.

Was all the language I possessed to deal with my emotions

Which over steps your need to rationalise even the most base.

Instead you paralyse me and shut down even the juices I can release with my own fingers

Now as dry as the ink on this poem.

I internalise your critique like a tortured teenager playing

With who they are and who they want to be

My outer self, already so defined and plotted, becomes a parody of my inner workings

And instead of the erotic fantasies of your submission to the whole of me

I am left with just the cold emptiness of an almost touch

I create scenarios of our release, which leave my nails indented in your skin

Of moans and cries and the deep places I let you in

And more the deeper places you reveal.

But instead you tempt and tease and show me glimpse of the real

Playing with predictable and facile paradigms of control and power

Which intellectually I reject and for which emotionally

 I

Always

 Fall