Naming 23/2/8, 1/3/8

Is it a gagging reflex?
There’s something obtrusive.
Holding.
Wrenching.
Throat-deep.
I squirm but the taste doesn’t want to go.
It’s the foreign taste of Love,
but the sick as often,
runs from my eyes.
Obscures, blinds.
Overpowers not only my sense of sight.
My sixth sense.

If it’s “a losing game” (A Winehouse)
then why is it unrelentingly sweet -- that’s too easy an adjective --
But having the same purity, my feet stick to the floor with its residue.
Neck-deep, and unsure about being happy,
My Love’s uncouth, inexplicable...
Listless as she lies beside me.
On a whim,
She’s walked out the door, momentarily,
but I only miss her
when I remind myself of the dangers of being apart.
Someone that doesn’t understand,
that doesn’t see...
Some Motherfucker.

Where did he come from?
I hate him even as a baby!
That fucking runt fetus!
And the daydream plays on...
I feel like calling her even as I hang up.
I don’t remember our conversation,
but before I attempt to resume it,
I hear his muffled giggle instead.
I see his demeanour:
Unshaven, glazed-over,
but I know there’s something else.
What’s his agenda!
That Motherfucker.

She has gotten to the traffic lights,
but malevolence rolls in like tumbleweed
at the deserted crossroads
and blinds her in all directions.
The frosted view blocks my caution --
I scream it, but neither even flinch,
unaware of me.
She rises to the challenge of the
silhouette approaching in the rearview.
I hear the chop-and-change of hinges swinging and chatter.
While the engines are still humming,
blood extends on the tar beyond My Love’s corps.
The burning smell’s disgusting,
and it reclaims it’s place in my throat.