Love's Homicide

He killed It. You
did not kill It. We
did not kill It. They
did not kill It. She
did not kill It. He
killed It.

A wandering breeze
through summer wood
It came - unexpected -
out of afternoon darknesses
sItting at his radioactive
fire's edge

bringing

Its own light - and he
killed It.

For months
It tarried, invIted
by silent invItations unintended
which seeped from his being
to the air between he
and It.

Sick, rotting
in his mind he glommed
to It in a way not unlike
the vampire glomming
to the succulence of the obese,
held It tightly - too tightly - so
tight fingers of Bone crushed
Butterfly wings
to his breast - loving he
killed It.

And in loving
sucked life until there was nothing
left
for It to give. In the nothing,
seeking survival, It left his
killing touch.

His soul regret? Nothing
more, nothing less - lies
in Love's
Homicide.

_{(A Friend :: 11/26/2010)}