You praise me like you’re preaching gospel and I’m terrified that someday you’ll convert to another religion.

And what do I serve with tea?

Of a cake layered with words - a slice
A croissant with stirring smilies
Quiche with quaint archaic spice -
Fresh from a poet's repository.

In the clink and chime of quills and ***
And spoons that stir the brew of tea
Dark or creamed, winter or spring
Here's to a cup of poetry.

impatience shakes my hands-
once steady,
now trembling
with the suppressed desire to possess you.

Words normally flow like water
past parted lips with a steady voice-
But forever I lacked conviction,
no pastor at a pulpit.

But now,
But now,
But now,

I love you is my only poem-
it falls like an echo of your eloquence.
But with faith,
now a believer at the altar.

But now,
But now,
But now,

Where has my eloquence gone?
Where have steady hands fled?
Hands shake, waiting to thread with yours.
Words fail, lips waiting to be silenced by your tongue.

But now,
I wait
with faith and bated breath.

I've been a million things in my life,
And worn a million faces like masks in an eighteenth century opera house where they tell you to scream like you mean it and whispers are never heard because the crowd is already on their feet and the roses smell too sweet.

But today I wear nothing but my ego,
My ego,
So Jungian, Freudian, the sought-after prize of a million men who won't ever compete with my constellation scars or the sharp sound of my teeth clicking together in a cruel grin.

You hate girls that strut like they're concrete because you broke them all before,
Because they're lies and false gods and you swear that youth today are all spat words and flying ***** not given.

I'm not youth today,
I'm an age-old god of war and pride and I'll cut you down like a whisper in the wind if you try my patience...

Because what is death if not being forgotten?
I'll forget you, if you try my patience.
I've forgotten a million fragile egos and I'll crumble your concrete into pixelated dust like a million tiny claps in an eighteenth century opera house that can't tell if the blood on my hands is real.

I've been a million things in my life,
But I'm finally the one that matters: unforgettable.

No one has ever opened the door
after it creaked closed.

No one has ever grabbed my hand
when it waved good bye.

No one has ever taken a moment to stay,
when I told them to go.

And so goes the temporary life
of a temporary person
who slips like sand
between fingers that do not clasp tightly.