My soul within his Irish blood

I miss him like an urge
a malformed intention
a lost sojourner down a dark alley

Like the inescapable memory
that appears in your mind
like the the unquenchable thirst
of his temporal flesh
Like his every formed word
from his mind to his lips
of him wanting me
being within me
and taking me down
that lusty sense of arousal.

James could never be that.
He could never love freely and passionately
Every calculated move was like a
hop scotch parody
drawn out in advance
with Money symbols at the end

the monopoly figure shuffled down the street
until the squares ran out
and he died an anonymous death
still believing he retained his virtue.