Love Letters to a Man Named Breakfast

 

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I found you
Scrawled on last page of a dictionary
Bleeding inky blots, a Nick Carraway.
You were not dark, dark chocolate
Or bloody-red Cabernet.
You were more sophisticated but
Much less stylish.
I told you impolitely
That I could love you anyway.

I smirked at a mirage of you
As I sunk more deeply into a sandy dune
Burning white in ultraviolet harmony.
You left 4×4 tracks on me,
That vanished with the climate.
These aren’t sunburns, dear.
I’m just blushing.

You captain your rocket ship
Scorching lines across the sky,
Drawing branches through the universe.
Don’t kiss the stars
With your angry lips.
I’ll burn you much more thoroughly.
You’ve got black hole eyes,
I’m orbiting your gravity.

The worst part of morning is bad coffee.
The second-worst is you being there
While not being there.
You’ve cast a terrible line into
A listless, salty ocean
All the fish were already dead-
But I’m hooked.

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