Spikes and Holes

He has holes in his spirit,
she has spikes in her mood swing.
Perfect match, the best of reasons,
breathing focus on a good thing.

Glances dances, bar to table,
bar to hazel, same old jazz.
Those tentative small advances
welling up from smoke and glass.

Blue to hazel, locking gazes
subtle signals reaching out.
Clear intentions, undemanded
understood and undevout.

He has holes in his pockets
she has spikes on her bracelet.
Unpolished and unamorous,
so perfect for this safe bet.

A jaded, shaded patch of youth
no longer glamour dreaming.
With beauty dragged through urban mud,
still there, but not as beaming.

Still there, and beaming bright enough
to light the murky ceiling.
A wink invite, a nod accept,
a smile, a word, a feeling.

He had holes, razor gaping,
she had spikes, venom feeding.
Holes are scars, spikes forgotten
now that other needs are pleading.

Disrobing from the urban mud
with wordless reasons spoken.
A glance, a finger trace, a kiss,
so small a giant token.

Explosion rings, he grips, she clings,
they bite, cry, flow so tender
in distraction from destruction
until spikes and holes surrender.