Let me

Let me write you a poem. Let me fill it with blueberries, soft-scented skin, and toes skimming the grass. Let me add a few kisses, and a really nice ass. Let me add the slow distancing of each other's bodies: Two faces lie apart on a wet white pillow. A cool breeze flows in through a half-open window, stars almost discernible between the blind's wides slats. One of the faces is crowned in red hair; the other bejeweled in tears. I might throw in a cliche, like "the sum of my fears" - or a bad rhyme scheme. Everything seems better in rhyme - that's why I write breakup poems. I don't want you to get the wrong idea of course - I could still shroud myself in the silences of your body, or sniff your sweat like a cocaine addict sniffing white powder - but tonight, let me merely poeticize the prose of our feelings, that once were songs. And pretend that coining neologisms makes me as brilliant as Shakespeare. Wait, poeticize is in the Merriam-Webster dictionary? Damn.