White American Women

I fall infatuated
With plain white ghosts
And pale sketches
Of barely women,
Discarded skin
From the venomous creation.

They find space
In the front of
A crowded lecture hall,
Shutters closed
To sweat it out
And drain passion
From my pores
With the heat of regret.

I know nothing
Of those shapes I admire,
In perfection they
Draw and repel
As the nightmare
You hope to relive
And fear to retell.

Once tasting the fruit
Of that now
So foreign of places,
It will never
Ever taste the same
In this lifetime together.