no more standing beneath bridges.

this is a poem I wrote for my friend who texted me a midnight beneath a bridge in London, lamenting over some jerk ex-boyfriend.

he doesn’t deserve your frailty, dear,
the way the sun
cleaves to your collarbone
and holds your elbows
he hasn’t yet 
(and never will, i daresay)
earned the right
to dash his heart
against your eyelashes 
feel crushed and resurrected
by your lips
of careful crimson

by all means
let him traverse 
the savage slopes of
your desert
and sweat worship
beneath your sun
let him quake 
in scented salvation
in your yellow hair
permit him parley
within the alcove of your
neck and the
moors of your
freckled shoulders

but not your poetry, darling.
never your heart. 

because he’s a d****e.