Firestorm

I think about you

I think about your small hands

Anchored on my puffed out chest

And how we said “never again”

Again and again

 

You retreated in my hesitation after you asked

“What’s your favourite thing about me?”

Well, it’s the mess I make with your hair,

The way your breasts fall when I won’t let you up,

Your owl eyes and innocent stare

 

I have been trawling through the wreckage and

These are the last embers of that firestorm. 

Flashes

Like footage after a robbery, she still has photographs of us

I surrendered the receipt to those digitized memories

When she determined my affections were deceit

 

Indeed, I might concede that there was,

In my heart, conceit

Treachery in every kiss,

For my heart was never in it

 

At the tip of my tongue, a concoction:

Curiosity – the cloak of my lips – and she tasted

Dose after dose – these fed my prose – till alas!

She discovered my mind to be no wonderland

And this, a chapter she must close.