Forbidden fruit and the hokey pokey
Playing Call of Duty, war machine. Yeah, that’s me. War Machine. Hearing about bombs bursting in air, but I am still here.
I love her. Loved her. She is. She was. I don’t know. Far away and long ago maybe. Times have played out across the event horizon but we danced under a silver moon, a werewolf moon.
I told you I loved you. My conscience is clean. We danced the hokey pokey in your kitchen. You laughed as we sipped on some vintage, early morning. Ah, good hour that was. Treasured and minted. Devoured.
No one knows. War machine. I sit. I hide. I am on the phone, data stream optic nerve. You laugh and I need your laughter. Forbidden but acceptable. It is our dance and it belongs to no other. It is our dance. It is our laughter. Under those stars I will whisper. Under the stars anything is possible, even love at this angle.
Too late. She told me her secrets. The train is leaving and I don’t know when I will come home. The dark night is inviting all to sail into her embrace. Hidden, we are seen.