I expected more—
your stature reduced
to a mere infatuation;
your love,
a twenty-dollar painting:
cheap,
detestable at second glance.
You look better in monochrome,
wearing nothing
but your seductive smile—
“Hello—”
You deserve the sweetest orgasms,
but as the night fades,
the bottle wears off,
I can’t help but see you off,
hoping I never see you again.
We can always make love
by blown-out candles,
to ease the nostalgia,
to dull the knife.
Cut the bullshit—
let’s drink and dance,
mon amour.
