Art

Tango has a rhythm I've become addicted to.

See, the music is unpredictable and pointed,

dance erotic and lustful, sweet and entrancing.

Look at me like I'm your world and then find another

I am not lacking in compromise,

but lately  it reacts to epinephrine in my body.

Do not tell me i'm the fire of a match, 

a candle would be a leash, not that I’m complaining. 

Hold my waist like arson, untamed. 

Know that as a threat, I will devour you. 

I've been told it’s self destructive,

that this love for the intense will kill me,

but God, isn't it fun to be consumed?

Entirely too aware of how she burns your fingers,

of how he dulls your senses, 

of how they make you dizzy.

I've learnt booze can make the voice of reason quiet, 

and that a hangover is easier when she makes breakfast. 

Nights alone aren't so bad when the phone buzzes,

Fuck, I love how he looks after a shower, 

love her in a tight  dress, 

love how they fuck without me. 

Memories and ideas mix, 

I can't wait to get a hold of you,

let me prove I keep my promises, 

arms linked to the headboard, eyes blind,

trust me, just tonight, and you’ll swear I love you.

I will, but only while you’re inside me.

Make forget my name, and let the neighbors remember. 

Art is painted on sheets, not canvas,

a new muse on display under me.

Tango plays in the background.  

I just need half an hour lipstick as a lure, 

thrusts as a rhythm,

and moans as a melody.