And You
Illustrated by Myriam Forget-Poirier
I was a melody,
an exquisite pattern of notes.
Vanilla and caramel softened together,
an aroma of warm sandalwood
swaying through the air.
I was a barista,
double shot of espresso, bold.
With eyes unforgiving as a sinkhole,
I would lure you in, enthrall, leave you
thirsting for more.
I was an artist,
serpentine sketches with a ballpoint, intricately
delineating the curves of your being.
An impassioned display, fiery orange and crimson blue.
Potent and complimentary.
I was a lover,
a flame, a kick of spice, a spoonful of cinnamon,
invigorating. An orchestra of marigolds and begonias
on a hot summer’s day, as lively as the palpitations of my heart
when I first laid eyes upon you.
...and you.
You were a burglar in the shadowy depths of the bedroom, deceptive as your touch.
An extinguisher when there was no fire to douse,
a glacial marriage of rightfulness and etiquette.
Detached, you fashioned an orthodox image to show the public,
you muffled the melody.
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