Your mouth tells me no but your eyes tell me nothing short of volumes, too high for my fingers to reach. Bend down a little and I'll try again but the last time I stretched I tripped on my own arrogance.
Did it hurt? When you fell off your father's lap and snagged your eyelid on his father's funeral and you finally realized what the Circle of Life had in store for its tenants?
You know, you must be Jamaican. Because I reached back into your past lives, six generations previous to this conversation and your skin is six shades darker and your smile six inches wider than right now. As if I'm counting. But I'm counting.
Roses are red, and I've never seen a violet because my vision was always much too blurred by the bottle to write decent poetry. What a shame. I could have been something worth toasting.
You've got more curves than a racetrack and a better bust than a T.V cop but I was never one for entertainment anyway so put your sweater back on.
Whore.
