When he writes poetry about me
It will look like sticky brown sugar
Until it bubbles and runs over
Magic and sex
Hot and scalding
He'll make me feel like
My ego isn't worth the praise
Words.. Honey comb dipped metaphors
As if his vocal cords belong to a lyre
He plays piano on my thighs with his tongue
Sometimes it's Mozart sometimes it's Monk
My eyes read his lips that linger with a smile
Full of sunshine and inaudible laughter
I drink his scent
His flesh warm to my touch
Evaporated heat of a cinnamon stick and warm brandy meld
I bite down on my lip
When I think of us
Stripped down, into one pool of orgasms.
I desire him.
Then I wake up
Looking over at an empty pillow where his head should be
No imprint of how he laid down
No lingering scent
No honey coated melody of his "good morning"
No rush to jump out of bed to brew coffee and add 3 shots of cream to match his complexion
I think of when he wrote poetry to me
Only to realize they weren't poems at all
Just the same tired script he used again and again.
Saying the same lines
Loving the same way
Proposing on even the same day
One day someone will write poetry about me
One day it'll be original
When he writes poetry to me.