by Frankie Collins
Had that burnt-toast taste
of love-gone-wrong glued
to my tongue for too many nights,
and I didn’t think that I would
ever call anyone “baby” again.
Who’d a thought all it’d take
would be three days of Baton Rouge
and a little push from two bottles
of red to jumpstart Eros’ motorbike
and roar him up the drive.
Now, I daydream about us setting sail
to Colombia, where we can inch
along dying rivers, drink our coffee
black, forget about wasted nights.
Yesterday, I found myself
scratching his name in the margins
of my Marquez. Now, he’s stuck.
The spindly legs of his letters caught
between nostalgia and the camellias.