Another love sick loser poem --- not me!

The primal need!
The heart skips a beat
at the mere thought of your
stiletto apparition.
Nostrils flare . . .
What is the name of your perfume?
Or is it your Phermones that I am inhaling?

I was a wolf once in a previous life;
but now, through Metempsychosis, a sheep.

I used to hunt, but now
you gather me into your arms
before dismissing me as if I were
a mere cloud of smoke
from a Camel
you just exhaled from your lungs.

Although unwounded
I STILL BLEED
Where the hell do I put the tourniquet?

My heart stops beating yet
amazingly,
I still live.
A love sick Lazarus, in search of the Holy Grail,
so that Jesus can undue the harm he has done
in raising me up from the Metamorphic dead.
Patting me on the back and sending me out there
to become a serial lover
driving down an endless deadend street.

The primal need!