Would you mind if I held you
like expired milk,
beyond your bbd?
Behind my lids, you course through me,
like the cool, creamy, rich taste of dairy.
But, spoilt, you too are no good for me,
yet I can’t just tip and pour you out
when you’ve always been wine to this juvenile.
Yes, beyond the passing pleasures,
and between the high-pitched aches,
I must admit, you suit steel better than living beings.
But lodged, as you are, beneath my flesh,
there’s more than a carton to recycle,
more than a tall rectangular box to drain.
I’d prefer to silence common sense,
still, persistently it warns:
drinking of that which stinks
shall cause gut-wrenching aches.
Dutifully, I must abstain,
forsaking further my delusions,
and enduring pain.
Inevitably, I’ll tire of staring at lost opportunity,
and great shame will overtake sentimentality,
then, you may go,
then, shall we part,
like creamy curds in soured milk,
hopefully bound for a new existence.
Would you mind if I held you till then?