Monday, oh Monday, how I hate thee, let me count the ways.
It’s Sally S here, waxing poetic on your ass.
This weekend was fluffy, little substance, little action, but heavy with the promise of many new dalliances to come. Yes readers, more ruminations on Sally’s romantic follies, just what you wanted! Hurrah!
I seemed to have raised favor with a specific hottie bartender, an American, no less. But I sorta like his big bad brain. Anyway, on that note, here is a note from me to you.
Love is a bastard art
its simple graffiti pulling at the strings of some heart now gone
its deadly infection stuck in the milky glaze of a long blaze
a fire swirling down some poor soft throat
and after a day of solitude
it will come home just to find the lips of its beloved
running over a pair of thorned roses
love is a dying art
its participants empty and cold
the drama unfolding its beautiful and pure scene
sometimes renting is better
when you’re thinking of leaving
and sometimes a hug is better than a fuck
still, love is a bastard art, and I, its divorced sun
stand waiting for it to come home
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