I wish I could be
your first cup of coffee
so you would cradle me first
as the light days burst
with steam I'll caress
your face and your neck
... and with that the writer's metaphor fell apart. He threw the pen across the desk and looked across to the bed with its rumpled covers.
She wasn't there. Hadn't been for awhile now. Through his window he could see dawn filtering through the orchard, the barren apple trees gleaming with dew.
He picked up his pen to write anew
Oh, Elisa, how I wish we could screw
... and he sighed. There it was. What he really cared about.
not love so much as sex
perhaps that's why
you are my ex!
... and he shook his head. He knew the truth. And he'd be damned if he didn't write it.
Love is just hormones. Why insist on a patina of romance?
The opinions expressed by this fictional character are not necessarily those of this writer. ;)