The Arrangement

Perhaps my emptiness is greater than your own. To test these levels is a testy thing; Bruises from tawdry love scraped against My aching face, and yes, there are stages to it: Grief, and always its sister emotion, doubt, Which tempers the fire held by gaunt rooms, Outsourced beds, moody dressers, and mirrors Unwashed by masters who think they're in control. Lust truncated; it remains a wild dove kissing Olive branches. They stare bemused into Unknown faces and unknown territories. What can I give, but wholeness, which is heat, To subvert restraint, to give breaths to instinct.