Meh

October’s lips has the scent of [love]
and [it] poisons her weakish lungs
that she empties out before dawn

when she gets up and yawns

if and only if she wakes up

and if she does, she ought to

but only if she wakes up

And her lips are soft, lips so tender
what am I to do but (ugh) surrender?

And her lips taste sweet, sweeter
than any sugary toaster treat
than any lemonysnicket tweet
than any rainstorms in autumn
than any unfortunate conundrum

(continues to rhyme, until however long you want)

and her lips are hers, hers only
Her lips are too sweet, too sweet,
too sweet to remember, but

Oh Lord!

how does one even think
of forgetting them?

(insert any sort of prayer here, or don’t)

Amen.

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