Urge.

How tempted was she

then it was different.

An occasional choke 'for wither

efferent, abatement.

That winter

wasn't any less enticed

perhaps sliced through

an irrationality in her eyes,

conducting a glance,

riddled

in woebegone moonlight.

Its those weekends,

rainbow'd grim,

carving attempts

in dismay

whilst we wasted 'way;

overwhelmed in gin

and unworn attire,

an ire token, taking

unspoken words

in a fake empire.

Now I'm frayed

shuffling too,

a virescent

asserting upon

dusted drawers

spray painted

in November chill,

though its not until

its left me coveting,

would she be tempted still?

Middle.

She was compassed, once

aimless and undefined,

culled with a dash

of gratitude

best viewed that spring.

Don't read in disdain

it'll simmer

that broken bone;

of how often

us yearned the moon

stirring anxious rum.

It provoked

uneasy whims

trimming an impression clean;

sunglassing yesterday

a pocket full of leaves.

In natter, precipitating,

forgiving your

sipping concerns;

now as inaudible

as a song in Autumn

penciled to our tune,

to a tune of ice cubes

smacking enraged glass;

each sentence stammering

each question unasked.