Sundae Date

Image result for zombie and ice cream

Sweet as a cherry
lips burst and curse
your name between
my clenched teeth
and my tongue
throbbing from
the aftershock
of thorns
and mouth wash
stinging like
peroxide poured over
on an open sore.

For six months
I watched the same
film rewind titles
of your eyes
bright and cunning
like raccoons,
black as a screen
and white in
a wedding dress,
ready to walk
down an aisle
of a back alley
into a dump
of your former lovers.

Strange is the name
I mutter under my breath,
strange is the trust
built along the landslide
of a curved mountain
hovering over the valley
in an avalanche of snow
melting feelings
in the summer months
of bar hopping
and zombies walking
into the recurring
cycle of like
but never love.

When will it be
my turn to bite
into a cherry
and squeeze out
the juice of love
from the top
of a vanilla
and chocolate
sundae?

I suppose
the intent of a date
is to wait until
the date they leave
with a mouth
waiting to taste
cold burns
from ice cream
trickling on a tooth
and firing a nerve
to clench the jaw
and leave the spoon
face down on the floor.

Moon shine the spoon
off the floor
and wait for
the dessert
to leave you
like a desert,
hot and dry
in jello shots.

Like is enough
for 6 months
without a name
but love is a zombie
of brainless
intent.

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