like stitches made by clumsy fingers, or gas station roses
(singles $2.00, doubles for $3.50), your apology is awkward
and i smear my lipstick swallowing it. after,
you say my smile looks like bleeding.
and you were such a sucker
for cheap effects: b-movies at the drive-in,
champagne in plastic glasses
and the way the beatles make you cry.
"let it be, baby," you mumble, and easy as that
we are over, so long to true love.
except a week later you're back, interrupting
the news with whispered poems.
it's my fault, you say, take me back, take me back,
and oh, i knew it was too easy.