Vulnerability
to my demons,  of lost ambitions,  screaming, “Failure!”
The saving grace:
Affection
is hidden in a blanket of self-pity.

That damp, pillow-soft-touch of lips,
Defending
demons with two interlaced breathes;
Replaced.

Morning's black kiss;  bitter,  not sweet.
Substitute
for my longing,  ever-so-slightly parted lips.

Swirling echoes of criticisms are
Rampant.
My routine: a morning band-aid
Peeled,
exposing me to the fierce bite of realty.

Desire
accepts no replacement to those flirting tongues.
Nor do scars of inadequacy subside without the
Pounce
of that eternally heavy hearted love hopeless romantics dream of.