dylan wrote, "her skin doesn't smell like your skin." that's what i've been feeling all day. mahh

drunk sex, passed out sex, morning sex, sober sex
damn my lips for swelling a-purple
guilt doesn't interfere or come up at all, really
since this isn't going to be recurring
i don't mind the post coital cuddle
since you knew what you were doing
could do it well, so i'll curve myself
to be the big dipper

(i don't mean to compare you
but it's inevitable)

despite that
i sleep better turned away from you
with my face pressed against the wall
left to my own intimate thoughts
that keep snaking back to her
the jagged times we're sharing
all as a preface to my happiness
the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn

Damn, the last stanza. That hit home. The first half was meh, though. I didn't feel like it moved me too much towards the final product of what you were conveying here; there wasn't much economy in any of it. It sets it up nicely, though.

Very good. You've brushed up against real life here, sir, and that's something that writers often forget they are supposed to try and do.
Today I feel electric grey
I hope tomorrow, neon black