Beneath a sullen sky
sticky-hot with intent,
I barely feel the heat
of your tone – of a voice
sickly sweet as molasses
and just as viscous.
I turn too late to hear your words,
to catch the saccharine -
to stumble into this honey-trap
of feeling, laced with syrup,
a sentiment more Hallmark than heartfelt.
You see I don’t ask for these words,
for repetition of the syllables of my name
strung-together-like-candy-bracelets-and-dolly-bead-necklaces,
tendernesses turned
to Loveheart slogans of:
be mine
I’m yours
my guy
say yes
…I love you.
I’m like the boy in the sweet shop,
hungering for the dizzy heights
of flying saucers and space dust,
only to be brought back down to earth with a bump
as he overdoses and crashes out of his sugar-rush high.
Or the girl, disappointed
as the Parma Violets and floral gums
fail to blossom into anything more substantial
than toothache and a sick feeling in her stomach.
Is it worth all of this for a brief satisfaction of a craving fulfilled?
There should really be something more to it than this.
So let’s step back and make a pact,
no more sweet nothings –
just real sentiment.
I’m not asking that you eat your words;
just don’t sugar-coat them.
