She’s no longer the source of my prayer,
she’s no longer holding most of my care.
And I swear that I couldn’t really bear
her wear and tear that wasn’t fair.

Now I race with haste to get some space
from her taste and her lively face
which is now just slightly laced with a trace
of my want for us to discase.
She’s hard to replace
but no longer can I chase
and keep pace with such a cold case.

My eyes are stained red;
not from crying again,
but by the taste of an herbal hope.
Perhaps it’s better off left unsaid,
but the smell of dread is left dead
by the piquant flame to which I tread.
My head floats like a ghost
from this sweet green and purple.
With tasteful lips in supply,
and a rolled joy high in my mind,
I’ve forgotten what it was like to cry.

My sanguine speech seems slurred.
And I’m not crying anymore;
a toast to the flame-filled water.
It makes facing my regrets easier,
and it’s so easy to disappear when she’s near.
I never want it to be like before,
even though sometimes I wake up poor
on the floor from pouring my pores
into just trying to forget her.
But for her adoration I no longer implore,
I instead explore for ore within the lore
of another woman’s valor.
Now the thought of the touch from a one-time lover
smothers my past desire for her fire.

The tangy taste of love lost
has faded over with hoarfrost.
Each weekend, I distend my intentions
to bend my wants, to be blunt,
to punt my fronts, as I tend
to ascend with commonly dazed women.
I can deny that I see guilt in the bliss
that is built on meaningless kisses.
I’m not digging dirt with these hoes,
and we know that the marks on their
necks aren’t from mosquitoes.
And our souls stay open when our knees fold.
And no matter how many potholes I explore,
I don’t feel ******* deplored,
I adore pouring out my core.

I am different now.
I think that I’ve changed for the better,
but I know that I won’t be tempest-tossed,
no matter the cost.