There are worlds we haven't crossed
and things we haven't lost.
There are dreams we've never shared
and hopes we've never dared.
There are hours yet to come
until our time is done.
Don't leave just yet
before the getting
is good.

Pity party, pity poison,
pity is pretty *******
at your Pompadour proposition, your Pompeii proposal.
The judge and jury blame  your execution;
you thought the tri in matrimony meant three
in love when it really meant that you're the third wheel.
You hoped I'd kiss and tell in your world of wedding bells.
Go to hell.
You smiled as you beguiled with false feminine wiles the
boy of miles and miles away, hoping that he might stay
with you instead of her.
Well, this is his answer, and, dear failed romancer,
you won't get that last dance.
Her love was pretense in past tense,
events not recorded in your history book hips.
Ah, a novel idea: you, John Green with envy,
tried to bend me to your whim.
Tried, but your pride died when I sighed
and said that I loved her, so you booked it
from the floor and seemed gone forevermore,
a footnote in the lore until you...turned into a *****,
came to me and said that you loved me more.
That is wrong.
Strike the gong.
This is a correction.
Your insurrection of our connection turned
affection into an infection,
and don't interrupt with your **** interjection--
were you expecting an *******?
Because you're getting a rejection,
so keep your confection objection to yourself.
You hoped to trace my face, take first place or third base,
leave no space for even lace, and half of lace is empty space.
I should have brought mace.
You are jelly in a jam, so your ham-****** attitude
led the lamb of love to slaughter;
the s leads laughter on, standing for ***
(check male or female),
stimulation, squabble, ****, ****, sext--
a wrecked relationship sinking, sinking,
and being nearer, my ******* God, to thee
makes me sick between my bulkhead bones.
The iceberg of your persistence
puts up its last resistance,
but it melts, melts, melts, in water hot as hell.
Is it not plain as you the pain you put me through?
You, with two left feet, hope I'll cheat the day we meet
on the girl who was your friend, and you've done this
once before.
Your dainty hopes that you could go two for two
with hearts and minds disgusts, and your lust broke my trust,
and I must, must, must ring the bells.
Class dismissed. I hope you've learned.

Boys.
Boys.
Boys will be boys.
Boys will be done on her,
for she is heavenly, and
Heaven forbid he reaps the
one who sews and
supposedly
makes sandwiches.
Sometimes you have to stand back
to appreciate a work of art, but they
skip class and
have no class.
There is no art; only **** lips and
suddenly thrashing limbs.
This is wrong, says the dust speck
clinging to his soul.
You crave her, says the evil louder, go, go, go!
Boys, boys, all the noise with their toys
and every point raised is wrong
and mothers are ashamed.
The game of life was not meant to be played
with broken pieces, let alone broken rules.

I found you in
peeling silk shadows
and socially unacceptable acronyms.

I met you
and you remade me
in the image of self-realized dreams.
Frayed heartstrings
blossom
from used ***** dealerships.
Spinal cord columns, rib rotunda,
cranium cabaret and Lazarus lungs.
We hugged on collarbones and
loved in dimples.

We ran.
We ran along shores we never knew,
skirted expectations like cliff-side raceways.
Somewhere
along a three way road of cobblestone delusions,
at an intersection of gas stations
advertising ninety-nine cent perfection,
we misread the legend
and the map lied anyways.
There are no u-turns in relationships.

You made me dependent upon
perfectly posed pixels and
lacing my fingers with the air.
Half of lace is empty space.

left alone with him, he undressed my mind;
bathing me in sweet acronyms,
traced upon curve in calligraphy
while whispering in prose our dreams

and...

he'd dip his quill; inking upon my skin,
noun's and verb's I'd absorb into my heart

then...

my poet, whispers again sweeping
me off my feet in syllabic count;
taking control of all my senses

while...

arching into masculinity his muse
would run wild against femininities
curvaceousness

wet...

lips began to taste his own poetic
prowess upon the breadth of me
and I'd simply smile into him

knowing...

his poetry is written solely for me and
I'd glide tongue across his lips like ink
against parchment