tout à moi

sadness. the kind that makes you wanna puke. that nausea only comes from love. dig if you will a tourist spraying duty free perfume in montmartre. do you smell chanel when you read me. nose deep in floribundas. when will i be fiction too. possessed by the spirits of eeyore and piglet. take whatever you want. take my books. take my songs. it can’t be dawn forever. life’s true pleasures aren’t served in all-you-can-eat buffets. just a year short of twenty-seven. minefield year. holy joplin jones. oh holy lizard king. holy ghosts of thirty minus three. suffering days like injuries. another loss in the ring. my devil bodyslams my angel to the ground. most of the time it’s dear abby am i a loser; who will crybaby over me; do i deserve love. but you interrupted all that. for one brief moment. you erased all pain. in front of that photograph of paris. angel climbed back aboard. i asked you who owns the eiffel tower. and pointing to your chest you said me. all mine.