Something about the taste of menthol smoke
on lips that made me blame myself in full
for winters coming on- the awful stroke
of luck that made my self-loathing sinful.
The thoughts & thinking never truly stopped
that made my mind maddened with trembling thoughts–
the never ending nor resting, tired plot
to keep awake, alive, those humbling thoughts–
but, no, l’ll not another line for me
that’s better spent on her deserving this,
who spoiled my sweet arcadia to be
with nothing but a simple minted kiss:
still wishing you’ll return that blue-eyed look,
so I could be the one that you forsook.