I was reminded today,
as the water boiled for
the season’s first cup of tea,
how much I despise
the kettle you chose.
How quickly the rust
formed inside, my thick wrists
unable to squeeze through
the tapered rim
to scrub it free.
And have I told you that
in that dress
you look like a fat pear
about to fall
from an overstocked
fruit bin?
When framed with glasses,
you have the
second-most beautiful eyes
I have ever seen,
but without them,
you look constantly
stoned or surprised.
Your Midwestern dialect
is so charming in the
words you mispronounce.
When ground to dust,
the darkest coffee beans
smell of your thighs
on the days you
bleed your worst,
and that, of course,
makes me miss you
more than ever.
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