Vulture
Last time I wore this dress I wrote a love poem about you.
Now I think of you as a crack in the gears of human passion and truth.
Made of, yet broken by.
Hindering.
Tragic.
You should be cleaned out.
Your position is in closeness with tentative wondrousness.
You appear directly,
speak purely,
move loudly,
defile bitterly.
Ride forward on the gear,
closer to another.
I wish you would crumble and be cleaned out for a new one.