(About a 1 minute read)

You wanted to give yourself to me,
You said, “On a bed of flowers.”
Which later in the same hour led directly
To that awkward moment
When we fell from the branches
Of that damn blossoming dogwood tree.

After six months in traction,
And still a virgin, I finally realized
You would not be my first, for by then
You who I loved had left me to marry
An improbably illiterate
Tasmanian mole rat rancher
In order to slake your two tragic lusts
Of bearing some man cross-eyed children,
And afterwards forever engaging him
In strange and stranger conversations.

Yet I wish you and yours well now
For I once loved you truly
And not with a false love
That turns to sour ash when love’s lost,
Or fails like a decrepit condom
That’s been too long kept in a wallet.