Bridge threads waft from your lips,
Another lure whipping my gray matter
Into brilliant pink frosting
In the well of my skull.
After the high
Comes the crash and confusion.
The realization that
You’ll never know
the depth of my flavor.
The first smile,
an anchor point,
Dividing time
Into a Before, then an After,
Is a free slice
Served to all.
I look away,
Pretending I’m immune
To your saccharin tongue,
Even though I once imagined
It was the best seat in the house.
Every time I escape the capture spiral
You tie on another flammable anchor thread.
Today the matches are lit.