They tell me I am a passing fancy,
that kissing the vapor of my skin is
like the ***** of sacred chambers.
They tell me I am cancer of the skin,
that my cells divide, unstoppable,
ignite the flesh at a lethal price of taste.
They whisper in my ear, sorrowful
pleas and sinful lullabies of promise;
and when tears slither acidic and sear
rosy imprints of a trail in the apples of
their cheeks,
they'll snivel and sniffle:
“But by God, I loved you.”
Despite the surly mood they often displayed,
like the tongue of silver from a metallic
taste of venom on the planes of my skin.
So, I told them I tire of synonyms of a same
word;
that loving a different person of different flesh
remains the same as long as character does not
fluctuate.