Frost.

As ever, the choler, shall be effaced,
and you will drop those little hints;
of how much you need to hold my hand,
while I make do, with your fingerprints.

As usual, you would change the topic,
hoping the previous would not arise;
and wishing you could wash my face,
while I take joy in your swollen eyes.

As always, because it's always been,
your way of crumbling these echoing sands;
you'd want to comfort my receding hair,
while I amuse myself, with your left over strands.

As it is, I killed it, before you ever spoke, about
literature, language, and your other friends;
and now you simply choose to ignore
while I sit here, yearning to make amends.

Manners.

I'll apply my ears to reverb,
slipping every fifth verb a noun;
to hear your final strains pull away,
there's darkness on the edge of town.

In reprisal, I'd then feel torn down,
sorrow in glimpses you arranged,
for I waited, witnessing revision,
harboring high hopes of revenge.

But you'd disremember consequence,
stabbing one right up these threads;
bethinking while sashaying out,
undressing their swiveling heads.

For one step small, snail's pace,
retracing - insouciant, muted speed;
rancor would seek recrimination soon,
scraping off the warmth you need.

Now, I can't keep from telling all,
similar whispers play hard to come;
but you broke those unwritten words,
unequal with the tunes you hummed.

Covet.

'Stop cribbing', she'd then scream,
I remember now in quiet evenings.
whereas previously, we had never been,
known to spoil and leave in between.

But then, despite overcast, it sometimes
dismisses, rejects the resting rains;
therein, we bit, bat, battered and feigned,
slowly succumbing with jejune preference.

For in caving in, lies little joy at times,
as one's cajoling discounts desire's price;
thus, lust makes endearment impolite,
easy indulgence and the death of appetite.

Pinch.

Courtesy her, this love with careless amour,
my enamor, and before I know, I'd stammer.
But stammer she allows, for I don't pretend,
whether ineligibly written or hard to comprehend.
Now she'd make a face, but I'll beat her to it,
unsympathetic and an untied shoe lace.
Wherein, what I can't disallow, somebody might;
slips, trips, cuts her lip, horribly impolite.
Hesitant, I unpack, leaving aside what she won't like;
and its in frames like these, that we thing alike.
For all that was, was run awash, stays bare in viewing;
it now swims in sand, and quickly dies in ruin.
Let me now, not fold and repack all in revelry,
that includes you, me, and these 14 lines of poetry.

Senesce.

She drew those sheets up the neck,
strained, those cinnamon toes, thus reveal'd,
For solace which appears from her knees,
has power to cajole, unfailingly mislead.

Then again, and this just may tempt,
began her daily orchestrated vent;
today's menu, an overdose in lament,
a tinge of salt with a hint of dissent.

Sunshine!
The tint plays bridge within my squint,
in times as these, one can't abandon, unsin'd;
as intimacy would cleave, let alone our schisms,
these foregone rhymes crowded with euphemisms.