FROM, ELIAS

I can hardly say I liked him—
Let alone loved him after four weeks—
But still his name bitters my tongue.

Calloused hands caress my stomach when I taste 
The linger of pink grapefruit-scented sillage.
And I feel his lips fizz and lemon on mine 
When I carefully iron white silk.
Watching some pretentious film I’m swathed 
By the sweet mint of his collarbones:
An aftertaste.

I’m not superstitious, but crossing fingers
I propose to wells with copper bars praying
To find some other man who walks like a rose
With a citric smile and makes me feel 
The same, impossible feelings as him.