(I)
I move with potential partners from season to season,
I find some promising:
The colour of his teeth nearly meets my crockery.
His voice sounds like the ticking of my antique Blackforest clock.
His hair as smooth as my apothecary table.
Your eyes are molten caramel, he says.
Your lips are pink as raw strawberry
Your skin as alluring as the frosted snow.
Your body as sinful as a sand dune.
They jabber and I fall asleep.
“I thought this one was going to last: (No jokes, truely... truely)
His eye colour matched my drapes quite seamlessly: it was like divine intervention!”
(II)
Why should I only love you?
Be tethered to the same arm?
-----You should be my Sunday man, instead.
