fairy dust

borrowed lips sparkle
with the glitz and glam of a 70s episode of TOTP.
a blue powder forms a cloud in the bar of the pub in which we sit.

i came of my own accord,
but now there are 3 people at my table,
wearing my girl's glitter.

i wonder what she's doing here,
flying nest to nest,
spreading shiny love,
like a generous polychromatic magpie.
a free bird,
like in that cheesy song.

eight for a wish
nine for a kiss
ten for a bird that you won't want to miss.

i'd like to blame someone,
but i probably twist my own knife,
just by associating with the love of my life.
listening to her harp on about the sticky details
of her other romantic interests.

is this masochism? jesus.
my eyes so open and tender
to open and tender lips on others',
when her legs aren't open to me.
those lips so closed and without tongue
when she says the words

i love you, like ventriloquist's words
that i can hardly understand.
like tragic mime,
they hardly move.
tantric.

i listen to her moan as i finish my pint,
and make conversation with her other lovers,
oblivious to the situation.
it riles me like playground injustice.

can't stand the tease
of baby, you're the one
with so many prime numbers
triangulating spirals
and ugly emotional geometry.

but there aint no law in love
so i leave the pub.