I might be a rote
while you have all the moves;
when you are adrift, in colours of your dress, as it flings off the skin,
I could see myself on different hues of a rainbow,
struggling a little, shrugging off the riddle
of what to make of you and what to do away with.
This after having written rude letters
to you in apology
for the sake of that night
where we had all the opportunities.
To settle the strife of the patience,
so as to lease my storm onto you,
and with the advent of the pause
you took before you swirled your thumb
into my mouth could have held
a glass full of mercury burning
to brittle shards, that might figure
in a speech of a Kardiashan
as she rumbles her letters to strangers,
when in her mind swings a millionaire
I could swivel one or two passes off the spring
as I finish undoing your buttons,
plus I have to let a rip
count down to the gap between your thighs
as your skin peeves a hike of the rhyming moans
as it wriggles a figure out of my fate,
to watch you jiggle the bombs strapped to your chest.
Lying about with a cigarette lit, ashes falling on skin
before it burns a heart shaped wound
to remind how we've found us in. . .