Chatham Station: Years in the Dark

 
The gears clicked neatly into place
like they were tied to strings
and swung wildly by some deity
who couldn't care less
what happened after he was done.
They coincide and I feel the rush,
the stupid, bemused emotion
fizzling up my spine,
landing with a horridly satisfying squelch
deep in the frontal lobe.
It's nothing so significant, she said.
A feeling, yes,
but of a smaller caliber.
I couldn't help myself to answer,
not after the chase, the back and forth,
arms fired by the emotion
until the acid burned no longer.
Passion stemmed from one heart or another,
but never both at once.
Some lovely summer flower
lopped off, petals bent in anxiety,
killed in the shade.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Portugal. The Man, Kill Me. The King