She smiles like a Cheshire Cat,
And it makes me laugh to think of how she sways her hips, walking away while looking back, like a professional acrobat.
"Live with me! I'll cook for you!"
The cologne
of her ex
on her skin,
as she coos
into my ear,
"Oops,
dropped my phone."
She bends her neck to let me see her *******
(which jiggle as she giggles at a joke I never said)
I don't trust her. Not at all.
But I'm flattered by her clear attempt to sell me in the mall.
Maybe it's Maybelline,
Maybe it's methamphetamine
(Or the bruises on her arm)
Or her pupils stretched with a line,
Of black paint past her felonies,
Past the "no trespassing" sign.
Past her oceanic iris,
Curving to her brow,
Like a coy, reserved, egyptian lynx,
Poised while on the prowl.
Maybe it's her melancholy glance,
Sent off towards some memory,
Of a redwood where she kissed-
How she looks away when she sits,
To my left,
her eyes, motioning
to some tempting offscreen thing...
I don't know what drug she worships,
But it's got her shivering.
"I love you like I love rock music
(But keep your clothes on)
I love you like I love the Steinhart aquarium,
(But keep your clothes on),
I love you like I love the cinema,
(But thanks for the compliment)"