ewe made toast

Sometimes, I read you backwards.

Starting with the final paragraph and stalking you back,

coda to prelude.

Because, I’m less interested in how you end up and more interested in

how you found yourself at your present conclusion.

I want to, again, layer on clothes so that I may take my time undressing in front of you.

I want to watch your eyes.

I will sing like the birds enjoying spring outside my open, bedroom window.

And, my face flushes and turns so scarlet that I could swear I am fevered.

I am not, but I swear under my breath, anyways.

I see all those slant rhymes you presume pass most by.

The repeated use of an odd word.

A woman giggles while noting she had to look it up.

I giggle, because the same woman said the same thing a year ago. The last time you spoke the Word.

I recall you as easily as ad jingles and pop songs.

It becomes embarrassing, but I’m not ashamed despite not being proud.

It smells like when ewe made toast.

And the scent memory, turns me into an overflowing ewer.

Catalyzing another metaphysical catharsis.

Hot tears spill. Oil slicks slipping down geological formations of cheekbones.

I look sad but I don’t feel as such.

I feel rapt.

I simply feel.

Make your libations and lower your vessel that I may fill it, vassal.