Dust dancing on rays of morning light;
she and I, and coffee flavored love.
The silence between the words was heavy
with an undertone of doubt.
Something she was hesitant to say
was fighting it's way from mind to mouth.
lovely lips parted to a broken sound
that became words- that became a eulogy
"I do not want a man who writes poetry"
she said, and sighed a long grasp for words
"I want a man who fights and sweats imported whiskey;
I want a man with diamond teeth and scars that tell a story.
I want a man who can juggle twelve running chainsaws
while riding on a unicycle."
Her wet and downcast eyes were blind,
and struggling with her troubled mind,
she did not see that I took the hint 5 minutes ago.
she didn't see that I had left;
because I am a man who writes poetry.