With his Italian stallion
Stance and stare,
I am beguiled and bewildered.
As he stands in the bedroom doorway,
Beckoning me with his pride, perfection
And cunning paradiso,
I sit on the edge of the bed
As the moon light from the window
Shoots my shadow on the wall,
Illuminating his truth and beauty
And the misery of my grace.
He inches closer, like fatigue.
I avoid his eyes and the discontent,
Which is brutal and bittersweet.
His voice creeps into my skull
While his cinnamon words
And candy coated coos
Glide like gilded sorrow across my skin.
I am intaglio, I am engraved
With his mythical view
And the delicate manipulation of
Attraction and allure.
His lips curl into a catapulting grin.
He says my name in a broken breath.
I look up from my own misery
And I accept my reward:
The obligatory kiss
Which slides securely into my mouth
Deeper through the thickening hole in my heart.
He collapses into clay
Waiting to be molded
With my compliments and concerns.
I don't dare ask where he has been
For answers are suicide
And lies are commonplace.
He rolls over, to sleep it off
Dreaming that I am a woman
Or a saint
Or the answer to his drunken prayers.
I close my eyes
Lullabied by the smell of whiskey
And the awful stench
Of self-hatred.
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