She was jealous of my music, constantly worrying that I valued its taste,
more than I did her lips.
So she prayed for the words of affections she whispered in my ear
to hold sway than the rhythms of songs in the seesaw of my heart when they take wings.
A true thespian, but I hate her drama.
If only her man could see her now,
brewing a mug of hot tea and emotions for me,
he’ll probably leap on things and spill my Lipton.
She said I was a better liar than I was poet, more than she was a nympho in a demure lady’s skin.
The prelude to our duet intertwine as we drink a draught of oblivion in the peaceful lies,
we sleep in
and awake in dreams of lost blues.
Let that beat drop,
this may end but our symphony is as fluid as the soul,
even when we cease to exist,
cupid’s arrow in it’s countless cliches may never glaze our heel.
If it does,
may our song expire with the glory of Achilles with a move-on partner,
insomnia for company and a late playlist at 3am.