We poets are prettiest when demolished.
So, be cruel and hold back that kiss.
Our lips will have nothing else to do but speak longing lyrics about . . .
how you taste.
In truth, you probably taste like everybody else -
but not to the one denied.
To that one, you are
the honey held high,
unreachable in a hive cut into Eden’s own forbidden tree.
That little bite of fruit was nothing compared to you.
Be cold, hold back that embrace.
Our hands will have nothing else to do but write.
Your rejection will become epic.
Strangers will shed tears upon pages praising you.
Glorious, unattainable you.
Shining, unreachable you.
Sent by God to the wrong address . . . you.
A blessing denied to the faithful.
So much more than you really are.
You will become a poem!
Do it!
Take that little bleeding heart in hand,
firmly.
Squeeze.
Feel it pop and break,
then look -
We leave such a pretty stain.
How could you ever be more than the cause of THAT?
It’s a grand thing to be loved, but oh . . .
to be longed for, immortalized in verse!
If you cannot paint,
cannot write,
cannot sing,
cannot pluck melodies from strings -
BREAK A POET’S HEART -
Just maybe you will light that tragic fuse,
see a sparkling cluster of fantasies bearing your image arc up into the heavens,
watch the sky fill with pieces of “but I love you!”
while the watching crowd goes
“Whoa . . .”