bouquet of roses

A Warning to Lovers

a secret meeting gone awry

a supposed cold room turned to a boil

she was filled to the brim with bile

with volatile resentment,

bottled at its source

 

screwed and secured tightly-

over and over,

until the ridges of its cap,

her self-contained artifact,

crumbled at its hopeful chasm

 

with each weeping,

tears of slow destructive sips;

residual out-pour, gradually

ate way at the only structure

strong enough to bottle

her corrosive nature-

acid rain of the heart

 

feeling the sunken velvet

her flesh turned wet and bruised-

steam rose and churned her insides

into sauna,

beads of damp, hot sweat-

 

carried by outbursts of anger

of ill-digestive desires,

of oily matter wet with oceanic tears-

pounding toward the surface,

traveled slickly down the legs of the little sofa

 

regretfully aware that the seat

preserved sweetly for secret meetings

was warm.

 

she wept over her unhappiness,

“only be true to me, that’s all I ask.”

 

dedicated to: Paul Leicester Ford

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