transient friction

i wasn’t really a giggling faggot fanboy for you
because you were beautiful
i mean you were but that’s not the point
you had such a stereotypically aristocratic british face
and long fingers like a poet should and
your mustache got on my nerves
(i remember grousing about it) and oh god your eyes
but that wasn’t it.

you were an older man and me just a silly girl
an angry boy with a mouthful of glass and ash
i wanted to consume and destroy you
but it wasn’t because you were
an unwilling mr. rochester to my jane.

it was that accent i hated,
the way your words are unrolled
snapped a few times and released
to fall in crisp sheets of snowfall syllables
on my shoulders and in my thick hair

they made me shiver so much–
i would have frozen forever on your cold shoulder
to wade in those letter-drifts
to bask in the winter of your words

but then you summered away


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