Not Quite

Our canvas haven,
candlelit by screens
shining
in the electric blackness,
betrayal on your lips,
lust dripping
from your eyes,
but
not quite.

As vibrations
spaced so as to
discern as sound
ripple
tinnily into the inky night,
you burrow through
my topsoil,
coming close
but
not enough.

My voice sends you
away, red hands
soaked
in your gauze
as other voices approach,
muffled,
come clearer as the
zip cuts
and my icy exhalations
entertain an
almost.

Tomorrow,
safe
and warm
and tattooed in shadows,
I feel a form against my own;
your mirage shimmers,
stares into me,
breathes, comes
closer than the others,
at least.

And later,
left alone, I speak the
unspeakable
in the eye of the
storm, weeping,
made by magnet pull;
marionette strings held taut,
dancing by default,
I almost
believed in fate.

Our canvas coven,
lit by screens
shedding
light on tortured features
barely registered in the
blackness,
regret on your lips,
desire dripping
from your eyes,
but
not quite.