Letters

A little critique of someone who is performative.

A cave of night and smog
in the corner of my neighborhood—
your cove of chivalry.

You arrive.
Here.
Or there.

Under the streetlamp
a blade of sky kisses the windows.
Your fickle curls bend into the dark.

How courteous—
that hug, all satin envelope,
pretending to hold something
beyond your pleasure
nibbling the male bone.

Prattle. Prattle.

Your fingers—those instruments—
tap the glass table.

Tap. Tap.
Tap. Tap.

The knife, my companion.

Pink wine sweating in the chill
on the French countertop.
Your instruments tapping.

Tap. Tap.

Away we go—
Go. Go. Go.

Ah, the envelope.

Its contents counterfeit.
The letters warped,
wet with failure.

A little silence
ripens into Death.

My knife opens the envelope
beneath the glass collarbone.

There—
there.

The wax seal splits,
oozing.

Me. Me. Me.

Frost flowers leaking...
Slip, slip, slip,
Fall.

The letters wake.

Goodbye.