Wilt.

She'd talk herself out, unassertive in sleep,

stammering across - a reverie in stampede,

to recede defeat in muted strains that ache,

only to drift away, leaving me awake.

Compos mentis, I'm found to acquaint restraint,

a tinge o' despair impairing already slippery paint;

the tone is moist, misty in sedate disquiet,

for 'neath the subdued pastel, dies our forgotten riot.

A parallel frame, which we dyed commotion,

stirring colloquy with withdrawn emotion.

But doesn't it hurt more when there is unrest?

As fracas slays only to conquer and arrest...

In smithereens, each caress makes sentence;

a broken bone, your smear on self confidence,

and with it, shallow imprudence makes you wince,

for when I need to overwhelm, its easier to convince...

Resent.

Effort, dirt on fragmented thirst,

she lets assert, and the hurt equals comfort.

But you don't skirt there checking math, 

one can heat the cake, and melt the mud exact.

So you subtract skin, deliquescing to react,

for slowly I'll sink away, too bothered to distract.

What makes enact - is an anxiousness in attempt,

for distress is fragile, when taken in contempt.

 

And that leaves me muted, frosted with intent,

vexed in slow disquiet, and disarmingly foment. 

That might scotch the riddle, buried thin in clutter,

as despite a sweet taste in the mouth, you're still left bitter.

Rapt.

...And the sheets bridge the shelf,

gathering dust and whispering tense;

gift wrapped in soft susurrate,

solemnly sailing in coincidence.

And the whiskey spills the floor,

soiling film and stifling foment;

belittling each need to sullen,

rubbing wrong that argument.

And the ardor stocks my thoughts,

your lips meanwhile lock patience;

wrecking thin and wearing faint,

the idea of an ideal conversation.

But all these whims which are create,

innate, slain within desolate sections; 

a woebegone chin that smiled displeased,

and eyes swimming red with intention.

Yield.

Hello, you, not you, why don't you encourage me?

Instead, you detest, unfailingly protest,

allowing me to succumb wearily.

But I'll address myself this dais,

a recreation that won't veneer;

lest it break the bone to design,

unless that sooner interfere.

So why don't you bring along prudence?

Sagacity might do you some good,

I'll stifle the ache, you echo a retort,

and sing the songs that I would.

That guilt is you blotch on self confidence,

discoloration wrapped in deep lament,

a sip to slip, and the song has changed,

while we regret our haplessness.

Egos shall then strive 'neath, delicate?

contours swerving across the vapid floor;

you adore, easily amid my weakness

to charily cave in, craving an encore.