Fractured Skin

Touch once sparked, electric and raw, lighting up bodies like storms,
Now it’s a gesture, a ghost, a movement devoid of intent, too practiced to transform.
Each brush of a hand is forensic, tracing the evidence of a fire already gone cold,
The ritual persists, but there’s nothing left to hold.
Fingertips follow the lines of a back, but the map leads nowhere–
What once ignited desire now only reveals the chill in the air.
The memory of heat is a lie told at midnight,
A story that helps the flesh endure but never makes it right.

Every fuck is an experiment in absence: can pleasure grow in the cracks,
Or does the body fracture further each time, giving in to the lack?
The answer is always the same–
No climax, no flame.
Desire withers, trust rusts, the sheets stiffen with sweat and loss,
No one reaches, no one cares, the line has been crossed.
Each night repeats–the same hands, the same skin,
The same ache to feel something, the same wish to begin
Again, but with someone new, someone unscarred,
But even that fantasy is tired, too hard.
So the dance continues: fractured skin, broken trust,
Bodies side by side, but the heat is dust.