As I laid alone in our bed just about all the time.

I swore that I would stop writing but
in light of recent events I felt the need
to lay it down.
Lay it down somewhere.

I miss the flesh the most.
You could keep her empty promises
and broken word.
But leave me the flesh.

Waking up every morning to all that
meat.
That soft, soft, soft, pink and delicate.
I always awoke with filth on the brain.
I would creep out of covers and,
like a panther stalking prey,
wait until I
could open my mouth
and dive down upon my obsession.

Like taking a bite from a fresh
nectarine. Swollen, juicy,
and always warm.

I never knew,
no I never knew,
that inside she vomited
and eyes shut so tight
played scenes of other times
hoping to induce release
and just get the whole garrish thing
over with.

In the throws of the day
I miss the flesh the most.
But the rest is an abomination
and will crumble in ruin.