Would that the sapphire of your eyes had never taken acrylic form and painted themselves onto
the canvas of my memory,
a scratchy fabric so brittle and stiff with layers of paint and
thinner, painted, splashed over, painted, splashed over again,
such a hostile and chemically volatile surface that your watery ocean must abscond into the corner which no varnish, no thinner, and no primer has touched.
Would that the honey from your lips had never sunk deep into the veins beneath mine, because now
it’s oozing out again,
oozing out from underneath rose skin every time I gather memories of
the fusion between my brazen voluptuous tulips and your modest, pale,
soft honey suckle petals
that breathe out sweetness and stick to the warm braided roll of my pout.
Would that the milk of your whispers had never poured down my ears and never irrupted into my bones, its calcium causing my body
to surge toward you and my piano hands to grip your shoulders as
the thick, filmy nectar traveled through me and soothed my heart,
telling me you were a source of nourishment, binding me to you like a babe to the breast of its mother.
Would that the wine of your affection had never inebriated my blood,
sending passion to commandeer my emotions
like a power-thirsty pirate
holding a round robin in his hand, waging mutiny against the captain of my ship;
it is he who has thrown me overboard,
forcing me to swim through water and salt
until I reach dry land.