image credit: DHBogucki 2018

Hot Sun of Dissection

Casually you brushed the salt off of my pretzel,
and tell me it’s better for my heart.

Wearing a smirk like a badge of honor,
you test my buttons at whack-a-mole speed.

Furious in my smitten refuge
I await the next salvo of flirtatious depreciation.

Romance can be spare in its forgiveness,
and empathetic charm.

Sweltering in the hot sun of your dissection
I lay myself open to receive your wounding affection.

—
(341)