My Second Love

I make miracles on her like the divine cosmetologist of Mary Magdalene.

Brushing out each lash as to lash out the hate she wrongfully received.

Applying the foundation as to solidify this faux emotion.

Painting on the blush so that she can feel that with no shame.

I line her eyes in hope.

We meet in her new beauty beneath the chandelier.

A ballroom should’ve been her first setting.

So I make miracles on her teaching her lyrical dances. Like southern ghetto punch this romance is too sweet. So I have to stop, to take it all in. the bitter with the sweet. Or like the good with the bad. Because, we can’t seem to reconcile our differences. And my whole life would change, if she came in pretending like she knew how to act right; but, she wrote wrong for fun.

So I make miracles on her righting the wrongs that she wrote, that he wrote about, which brought about the sudden urge to splurge on pens and legal pads, rather than MAC brushes.

Painting just as vibrantly as before, yet, no longer making her up.

But, giving the pure depiction of how she keeps me satisfied.

But as inkwells run dry my hunger grows, so.

I make miracles on her, still, hungry. So I eat fruit from the poetry to attain knowledge. Wash it down with wisdom from any biblical text. What comes next is the sudden urge to splurge my thoughts into feelings and submit them through this pen. Just to reveal my lust for her. Because, we stay up all night, making what I write, right.

Right? And as the sun rises I make miracles on her like sores of lepers.

From swarms of shepherds I call forth my prematurely born conception for protection.

For of the mouths of babes passion flows.

Corralling any weasel willing to foxtrot with his quill and retreating him to the rafters.

Before I’m after him like the rapture with Anita Baker in the kitchen.

And I make miracles on her using Anita as my blueprint and then dubbing LaBelle as my personal assistant. Because they couldn’t prescribe enough delicious. My recipe sustains her. Like sucklings’ feening’ for another hit she needs me. Because she can’t do this alone.

And again I make miracles on her like pharmaceutical Hermes with a caduceus.

Me the messenger I reduce this to verbiage through bruised lips.

As if the song of sirens wasn’t loud enough to sink cruise ships.

My cuneiform speaks the volumes of history lost in the libraries of Alexandria.

Or places Thomas as the medical examiner of Jesus himself.

And like it’s his presence she felt.

I make miracles on her feeling her feelings in conjunction with mine. Because we’re one in the same, together. Alzheimer’s may have her lose her train of thought. But I write on notebooks and letters to help her remember our last rendezvous. As if she could forget.

And I make miracles on her like the lyricals’ conjured up by the hip-hop heads of the Boogie Down. Like Ben Hur dressed in the black mail and chest plate donned by the truest warriors. Wielding my pen against the broadest sword. I’ve grown from a modest ward to the ruler of the roundest tables, or left handed school desks. Working on ambidexterity writing, “Who’s next?”

And I make miracles on her screaming it is I, or it is me. Or like Twentieth Century Fox Television channels of a black show on prime time, I’ve got down. Like any equal opportunity employer she’s been through many men. And since she’s an exhibitionist even every woman. But I’ve tamed her wild banter to proclaim that I’m the man and I’m the best. And she wants nothing unless it’s at the level of my doing.

I make miracles on her like the masturbatory product of flaccid kings. Spewing forth well-fashioned streams of consonants and vowels. Acing spades and trowels to furrow any thoughts that burrow to sew such said seed. So well cultured it couldn’t receive flak from Roberta.

I make miracles on her killing her ever so softly with the precision of this ball point pen. Leaving an everlasting mark in time. And rewinds of this old song keeps her beautiful. Such a vibrant thing waltzing to a slow tune called love.

I make miracles on her like flames dance on oil of Macabee’s. Unraveling scrolls of papyrus to reveal hidden messages she left me with unbeknownst to you. I make miracles on any canvas she allows me to freehand on. And we stand strong. Me and my poetry.

My Second Love

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