7th 8th and by 9th avenue I knew
I had found you. I paid a whore. Not
to see the gloss of her lips, or the sway of
her hips, no I never will love a woman.

I just wanted her to pretend.

Pretend to be the one who hurt me so, a horrid heartbreak.
Swearing to the stars, a sad soul of a creature
torn, I despised her and swore against the person she represents.

I would never touch a whore’s mouth,
but I did puff a cigarette that was engraved with her lipstick.
I needed to taste, baste in the bitch who was encased with you.

It happened without warning, pure irritation as I couldn’t
see the separation that on a back ally street was so clear.
As it fell, the sadness of a lonely tear.

It brought a sympathetic nature to her smile,
this pathetic poetic display made a worn whore care.
And I knew I loved her, as I once loved you.

Then she spoke a single sentence…
“Your hour is up”, as the door behind her shut.

And I was broken again over a slut and a few bucks.

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