You’re a Russian novel written on a napkin.
I’m the moth caught at the back of the throat.
You’re taking revenge on the years sorrow wasted.
I’m a dish best served at room temperature.
You’re the first screening of The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie.
I’m listening to Holst’s Jupiter on repeat for weeks on end.
You’re a rescheduled suicide date.
I’m the misplaced word that could change a thousand lives.
You’re the smell of freshly baked cynicism.
I’m the black eye on the other side of the Tunnel of Love.
- C.N. Rife