Wheezing Roses

You say
“There’s no air in this
coffee shop love.
Though I wheeze
with my bellows, 
when I find you 
in canary yellow
you’re the colour of my insides,
don’t you know, love?”
.
What you haven’t figured out,
is that, without a doubt,
though you throw away your Oolong
I’ve stained you now, throughout.
I see you share your breath
with a hundred pairs of lungs,
and taste the sodden air
that’s on a thousand other tongues,
so I admire your cut of hypocrisy
now you ask me for release.
.
.
For those who have run out of air

10 thoughts on “Wheezing Roses”

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