I called you today. Your voice was
a cinnamon fog, so
easy to get lost
in conviviality. Nothing said that
wasn’t icing, resting on top
of the chocolate. And yes,
I’m chocolate, white as fucking
Beaux Arts. I’m vanilla and
chocolate all together and if
you really want to know me you’ll have to dig in and chew. But
then, this cake wasn’t made to
nourish you.
Forgive me
for obfuscating.
I am a warrior who saves worms from wet sidewalks. Mighty
lover that I am, I’ll hug you with
my Beaux-Arts heart and
mean it. If
you want me. But I’m
never cake on a
plate just for you. I’ll surprise us
both by not
crumbling.