Don’t do it

Her eyes said
Her voice lost
in the fog that descended upon them
She followed the tight lines upon his face
Skin stretched, nailed by piercing eyebrows
His jaw, a geometrical figure
she learnt nothing about
But the instrument in his hand
was familiar
A murder weapon
Three-pointed like his fear, anger
and paranoia

Somewhere flesh leapt and grew sated
under humid blankets
unaware of its ephemerality
It would later that day be
gored
passion-cured
pitch-forked
into a unpleasant memory