Tuesdays are for me,
What Wednesdays are for Rosanne.

It's not only Tuesday, but it's always Tuesday.
I spend my day with growing anticipation.
Thoughts of the night to come to cloud my mind,
A welcome distraction to my daily uniformity.

Finally, the tease is over.
I sit with my Smithwick's and cling to the manic directions of how to appropriately retaliate when a poem hurts your feelings.
Excellent foreplay for a cunning linguist.

With that, the real play begins. A beautiful, floriferous group talking about beautiful, floriferous groups.
*****'s that never had a ******* thing to do with flowers.
Forget-Me-Not's worth remembering.

I sit with my ****-eating grin as I cling, morbidly to the real, visceral, tragedy of such caliber that Shakespeare would stand in awe of you.
A reincarnated sewer pump couldn't cut through the vile events I hear. For once my empathy is a weakness.

Razer burns on the wrist.
A book whose simple table of contents hurts more than a thousand papercuts.
A manic pixie with a chip in her shoulder like a porcelain cup.
A teacher and champion for the little guy.
A woman who's known more cultures than I ever will and she ever wanted to.

I absorb your words like a parched desert swallows the rain.
As the ground cracks, I see you, I see all of you growing.
The vile decay turned into nutrients for your roots.
I can feel the ****** coming closer.
Your floriferous display is just a prequel to the fruit of your labors.

I take in your energies and hear the whispers.
At last, it's​ all coming to me.
The energy overflows, the ******, crescendo, release.
You are my muse, you were always my muse.
For that, I thank you.
Thank you.