Dear John Smith,
allow passage for secrets
to your ear from her lips
about the time she prickled
her nails down your spine
and stabbed your neck
with cold breath and
stagnant sweat, your eyes
closed blind to reality:
her way of showing no mercy
to you playing apart of her
rat maze ensnared in trap games.

When you stared at her
through the mirror, she drew
subtle hints, a warning flickering
in her eyes to clarify
all that she characterized.
she creates the atmosphere
and leaves you to make emotions,
but steam fogged the glass you saw,
and glass of wine fogged the memory
you conceived in your mind.
She never really thought you two
saw eye to eye.

It took only toxic and booze
and an inebriated train of thought
to fool yourself into thinking
post midnight hours revel only
in passionate acts when
there wasn't even love to begin with.

I know your heart ached when
you slipped her the cash for the boss,
(man, you're a valued customer!)
something like, "this isn't right," vaguely
crossed your mind, so you threw a nice tip,
hand on her waist and finger to lips, watched as
she walked away with your donation and her
glaring like, "You think Benjamin could buy me freedom?"
Yeah, well, you watched her from your hotel window
and sang the blues and boohoos, and man,
it sucks to be you from your five star
suite, emotions devoid and still
tasting the bittersweet left on your lips
by the wretched fact that all you have
to give and take is green.

this moroseness you attach to
glass windows, thumbprints smudged,
watching tentatively a woman you
want to pretend to love hail a cab with
yet another man hung ragged
and forceful on her tender arm.

she knew her worth and
threw you some change of
thought to spare.

her love isn't for sale.