This heart is not a room for rent
that you may leave from as in you went,
at the hour of your liking, late in the eve
there are no doors carved inside my rib.
Thus I cannot simply, casually let you go
as though business has been transacted so.
There will be no doorman at the ring of a bell
and I will not usher you out with a farewell.
how much wine
and how many days
is it going to take to get
you off my mind
and can’t I check
out until then?
do I have to sit here
is that necessary,
at 6 am
to have to drive
by your exit
And I may soak my skin under the sun
lather its golden rays until I am blistered from burns.
I may play hide and seek beneath embers
and baste myself with the gray, smoldering cinders
of a fire but I will never know warmth
as hearty and fervidly heated as your kiss;
flame and stellar Phoebus’ scorches will fall tepid.
They will quaver, drop on their bruised egos, puny knees.