Dust settles on the windowsill
As my breath subsides
Two dead flies stand upright
Guarding like miniature scarecrows
Watching with hollow eyes.
Their shelled carcasses, having been bleached
By the sun until crispy,
Fool the residents into swatting
and stir up the dust
Keeping their bodies whole.
On my finger I see
That a leg has gotten stuck
While two live flies buzz my own legs
Attempting to procreate and multiply
The number of future scarecrows
On the windowsill.
I flicked the leg at them in protest.
I don't want sex.
I want our spirits to grow together
Like vines, twisting and choking out
Any outside forces that interfere
With the cultivation of sour grapes.
I want to love you
But for a day I will hate you
and each word is a revolt
Against all I stand for
and every vice a crime
Purposely committed to engage my ire.
Then the bane of my existence
Lays a weary hand upon mine
and all is forgiven
As I crave this touch,
An intimate tangle of souls
Without the emptiness that comes
With mating, or reaching out
To find nothing afterward.