Empty Threads

He was once a firebrand–skin that bruised for nothing, hands that shook with lust,
Now he walks the empty hours, shuffling through the dust.
Old jokes haunt the room, the punchline lost,
Desire evaporated by the weight of cost.
Every night he laces up regret and steps into a city built of empty beds,
Each lover a ghost, each promise something better left unsaid.
Numbness is his coat, his armor, the secret language learned by those who lost,
A currency of touch, but never trust, a love too thin to last.

He measures life in threads–frayed, unraveling, pulling at seams that never mend,
Hopes that curdled, hearts that never learned to bend.
In the mirror, he is only evidence–wrinkles, laugh lines, bruises, bones,
A man constructed out of empty moans.
Desire is a rumor, a habit, a ghost,
He fucks to feel but feels the absence most.
Each climax is a gamble, a joke, a dare,
But after the sweat dries, only numbness is there.