Dinner: Rice-a-Roni and a Bottle of Red WineBack
I will write you drunken poetry.
I will coat my tongue in Merlot velvet
and whisper soft lies to paper.
What lies? What rhyming lies shall I whisper to you?
I will tell you these things:
I cannot tell you how I feel.
Words are not long enough for my passion.
Indeed, my passion is too long for words!
But come into my bed and I will volunteer my passion.
It will be enough for both of us.
My long, long, wordless passion. This worthless rhythm.
All night long.
See, I can be cocky with my lies. Cocky in velvet.
Now I shall be sweet:
You are honey to me. Sugar. Syrup.
I am stuck on you like an ant on a moistened cherry lollipop.
See how I bring my cocky
velvet to bear, even on your cherry
lollipop? And some call it a sucker!
A sucker for my velvet lies?
None such as I.
Here are my lies. My true lies.
Here are the lies I tell myself:
Your navel means nothing to me, nor your tongue.
I never think about the catch of your breath,
or the way your back arches,
or even that long shaky sigh.
Your voice is never in my head.
I never lie awake because of your skin
or the tightening of your breast
or the green-grey-blue of your eyes.
In fact, I rarely even think about you.
Such are my cocky velvet Merlot lies.
I tell them for a reason.
Shh! Don't spread them around.
--Z.T. 16 Dec 2001
Last Edited: 05 Aug 2008|
©2008 by Z. Tomaszewski.