Concerto.

Hold me against your body,
run your fingers along my magic strings,
turn each stroke into a haunting melody,
strum away my pain and make me sing.

Gently press your lips against me,
wet them and then softly blow,
with each exhale, I let out a sigh,
then slowly lose control.

Whether you’re an amateur,
or the maestro of the symphony,
the music we make is a consequence
of our classical chemistry.

Pretend I am a piano,
let your fingertips dance wildly on my ivory keys,
silence your suffering with moonlit sonatas,
finesse me with my very own Fur Elise.

Now blow into me with all your might,
let me blare like trumpets and French horns,
empty your lungs into my own,
then listen proudly as I fill every corner of the room.

Count the beats and keep the tempo,
when you bang me like a drum.
Smash into me like cymbals,
swaying in vibrato to the rhythm.

When you’re feeling blue,
cradle me like a saxophone,
let my sweet jazz soothe your sorrows,
until you remember you are not alone.

Whether you prefer the balalaika,
the sitar or the mandolin,
your hands will always know
the right notes to play on my violin.

Slide your bow across my bodice,
seduce me with its soft skin,
your musicality never fails to amaze me,
every note in consonance.

Epilogue.

Once so desperate for your attention

that I did handstands and magic tricks,

just for a bit of your affection,

I swallowed fire and chewed on bricks. 

I wanted you to notice me,

and like all that you would see,

yearned for your love so deeply,

like it could make me happy. 

Now in the aftermath of us,

I see that I couldn’t have been more wrong,

you made me believe in fairy tales

before you robbed me of my song. 

Stripped me of my confidence,

every time you berated me for your own indiscretions,

your insecurities ate you alive,

they were the reason why you viewed me as your possession. 

Convinced me that you cared,

claimed that you had never been in love like this;

until you left and abandoned me,

alone to fend for myself on a sinking ship. 

Your kiss, sweeter than Belgian chocolate,

and smoother than ice wine,

quickly became toxic,

like poisoned turpentine. 

Naiveté, the reason why I fell for all your games,

foolishly believed our love was hotter than fire,

despite not seeing any flames. 

Now that I have been transformed

by the absence of you,

I have changed and grown so much

that I am now brand new. 

My heart is no longer wounded,

my skin is thick once again,

no amount of love’s carnage

will ever cause me pain. 

I am a warrior now,

a fighter with an army of one,

I would rather be alone, in love with myself,

than share my bed with anyone. 

Infinity.

You were Aurora-Borealis right,

and brighter than the northern lights;

nothing else in this world, 

came close to the beauty you possessed. 

Whether you were fully dressed, or naked as they come,

every single bead of sweat that found itself upon your neck,

was more beautiful than the rest; 

nothing else was similar. 

Even your breath was musical, 

you wrote hit songs when you exhaled;

I could watch you all day long, 

studying your every move. 

The way your chest rose and fell was reminiscent of the ocean’s tide,

it ebbed and flowed pulling me deeper inside our love. 

Hands softer than the whitest sands, 

no feet have ever known such magnificence.  

Those eyes that evoke such desperation within me,

mahogany brown and more profound than philosophy;

with each blink, I am transfixed, 

left guessing which emotion they will express next. 

Despite all this, these weathered hands will not stop wringing, 

from the grief, so heavy that it collapses my lungs.

From my head down to my toes, I am numb, 

arsenic is all I can taste on my tongue.

My throat is caked with regret, 

so sore but I cannot find the strength to hydrate it and get it wet.
The ringing in my ears won’t cease, as shrill as the eerie silence of an abandoned underground garage,

it pierces my ears with such violence I wish I was deaf. 

The tension between us is thicker than the fog in China, 

and it is just as polluted by our unvoiced suspicions. 

You entered my life with as much as intensity as a fighter jet 

that has just broken the sound barrier.

Yet my failure to eject you leaves me feeling inept.

Swept under the rug, like fur or dust, or ashes from your cigarettes.
Winded as though I’ve run a decathlon yet determined to take my next steps,
this haggard heart of mine goes round in circles, unsure of whether to turn right or left.

Clapback.

Faces may pass, you still pay them little mind when you’re on easy street,

walking down the avenues of a life that came so cheap,
no one contests your success, or questions it since you’re the one to beat,
just know that some roads lead to success while others to boulevards of broken dreams.

You treated me as unkindly as the homeless that you passed daily to your chagrin,
it was not just ignorance, but heartlessness inspired by their suffering,
your own stresses were the only ones that were worth your engagement,
no one else could reserve any spaces in your mind.

Every morning, you wake up and everything is perfect,
no debt, no worries, you are so much more than the layperson,
convinced you are untouchable and that you have the Midas touch,
living life like you are the centre of the universe is more than enough.

Unprepared for the rude awakening that waits for you in the shadows,
growing stronger every time it sees your ego in action,
the more you mistreat your fellow man, the more it wants to catch you off guard,
but it patiently waits for the best moment to tear you apart.

With little heart, but a home the size of Saturn,
you have no time for sob stories as you plan for your own future,
not easy to love but somehow your life is filled with suitors,
until they realize, like all the rest, that they were just in a stupor.

Clap your hands, applaud for the man that you’ve become,
twenty-six going on sixty, how’d you get so numb?
Your grave will be the only one that no one visits,
for you wasted your life treating everyone that loved you like shit.