The ice cubes at the bottom of my glass
Clink a charming melody in their amber lake.
They're clear, like glass;
Like a window, through which i see her;
The cheap vanilla scent of her embrace,
Her wandering gaze,
Her body - so warm, so soft, so far, like I'm
a ****** watching from outside her house.
A man is an island; sometimes, i think
she's not swimming hard enough to reach me.
The match strikes within me, low in my stomach,
And before i dare drink water to quench it,
The words tumble, tumble, tumble out.
Her jaw clenches, her eyes water,
Fit to cry another ocean.
Maybe, a woman is an island too;
And maybe, the ice cubes are more reflective.
A mirror, where i see that which rots within me.
But too late, as deft fingers wrap around my wrist,
And a hiss hangs like a cloud at my ear.
"We'll talk about this tomorrow."