Your Magic is Served Hot

And tastes like sweet music

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Your Magic is Served Hot

Your constant heat, dear Asha, is what gets me to keep going.

I know it’s a contradiction, but this friction soothes me.

I am looking for some kind of commitment, though, my soul can’t afford to pay double the ransom just to be near you.

I used to love burnt toast, and it still possesses a certain romanticism, but I still need to get up every morning and fight the dragon that lies beneath my breath.

I’ll take any old slab of stone and write you that near-perfect poem, a poem with bones.

Sure, I don’t have a full deck of cards, nor do I consider a horseshoe lucky, but it’s my romantic nature that always gets me into trouble.

It’s like I’m playing in a tournament, and the winner gets your soft thighs.

I try to be immune to advertising, but every time I wake up next to you, I reach for a brand name beverage.

My revenge against all the other men you see will be to count their heads and try to shame you privately for it.

I consider myself exempt from all blame in this regard — my desire for you is true and therefore must be fulfilled.