Here’s to you, Mr Poet Man,
Chin chin.
I am free from your chains at last,
Metaphorical, of course.
What other type would you use,
My dear?
I thought I was your muse, darling.
Wasn’t the blush alive on my cheeks?
And the freckles upon my skin?
Empty words.
Just like those you would groan in bed.
Simply remnants of a failed stanza.
Your little brown notebook.
Old and with the pages curling,
Worn from your tender touch.
Perhaps it would have been a better lover.
You could have...
Run your hands down its spine,
Lick fingers between each page,
Undress it slowly from its dust sleeve.
I bought you your first fountain pen,
Emerald and engraved, a gift.
It would always interfere, the bitch.
Your soft hands tainted with its mark of ink.
You were only happy when you wrote,
An affair no woman could understand.
Why didn’t you marry your pen, sweetheart?
Run off into the sunset with your words?
Send love letters to your rhymes?
Goodbye, Mr Poet Man.
Good riddance.
Who am I to compete with verse?
