Sour Lover
More than sex she loves the color brown.
"It crows and kisses and kills," she whispers to you with a giggle,
hoping you'll think she's as clever as she thinks she is.
"Nothing more satisfying," she hums, stirring Earl Gray tea -
"Than to walk through a winter-melting wood."
More than brown she loves factories.
"To walk through the smoke - am I in a movie?" she won't answer her questions,
imagining you imagining her stepping out of a fog
and kissing you until your pants break open.
Don't worry; she wont bother saying, "I hope it gives me street cred."
More than either she loves words like "slats" and the Industrial Revolution.
She murmurs them in her sleep, slight, breathy "faults,"
low moans of "rails" and "coal" and "shrapnel."
Only lost in your bed unawake does she stop grasping
for your esteem, stop dreaming that you think she's special.
"It crows and kisses and kills," she whispers to you with a giggle,
hoping you'll think she's as clever as she thinks she is.
"Nothing more satisfying," she hums, stirring Earl Gray tea -
"Than to walk through a winter-melting wood."
More than brown she loves factories.
"To walk through the smoke - am I in a movie?" she won't answer her questions,
imagining you imagining her stepping out of a fog
and kissing you until your pants break open.
Don't worry; she wont bother saying, "I hope it gives me street cred."
More than either she loves words like "slats" and the Industrial Revolution.
She murmurs them in her sleep, slight, breathy "faults,"
low moans of "rails" and "coal" and "shrapnel."
Only lost in your bed unawake does she stop grasping
for your esteem, stop dreaming that you think she's special.
Mary Perth
