Sticky Fingers; Sticky End

After appearing quietly in my street,
you moved gracefully, flawlessly,
through the charade of love,
the feigned mobilisation to infatuation,
all the gesture,
the mannerism,
but no caveat emptor.
Just an escape clause,
dug into your verbose entangled fine print.

Mesmerised by the expert flair,
hypnotised by the penetrating soft sell.
I took your hand
and let you lead me
up your garden path.
You kissed me passionately,
and your front door closed behind,
as I staggered away adaze.

But, when I got home,
I discovered something was missing.
With the light touch of a pickpocket
you reached deftly into my thorax
and snatched out my heart.
And as I stared at the aching void in my chest
you sat at home,
like an amused cat,
with a tortured mouse,
playing with my beating muscle.
Bored of the twitching flesh
you swiftly broke it in your palm,
tossed it into the fire,
and listened to crackling meat.

Alas, the thief realised
that she missed the attentions of the would-be suitor
and tried in vain to bring him back
but with no heart
the CPR just made him wheeze and fart.
Yet, death and fortune kissed and sent forth a gift
rigor mortis: a parting offering of love
the sticky fingered girl
took him in hand once last time
and with vicious vigour
stole a final viscoseless f**k.