the sugar bowl rests on the table, anchoring the vinyl tablecloth patterned with bowls of fruits that never became famous.

flies orbit around it like the sun, blissfully unaware of the fly paper hanging in the corner,
looming like God over the room.

a ceiling cemetery,
a paper paradise.

i look at the mummified insects and i wince.

my fingertips trace the rim of your mouth
and my skin pebbles.
i wet my finger and indulge in you again.

a fly trap awaits me.

i was born of rough cloth.
it cradled me from youth
it kept me scarcely warm,
and amply humble.

but i grew a longing for silk and silver—
a softer touch,
a glimmer around my neck.

my head rests against your chest—
your cashmere skin greets my weary cheek
i hear that gem beating in your jewelry box
a scarlet ruby,
plated in the pure gold of your love.

i run my fingers through your amber satin ribbons.
you laugh a music box tune and i long to dance.

your smile shines in pure ivory,
and your eyes twinkle with a clarity
the finest of diamonds envy.

i look at you,
rich with love
and i remember
my wealth.