She is pleased

On inauspicious days,

Days when the sun rises so red

That you’d swear it’d been painted

With the blood of ten thousand cowards.

She rejoices

In the sharp, salt tang of treason;

She’s a city-slicker, picker of fights;

For her, valor is not a good enough reason,

And youth is the only worthy season.

She’s the one who sways our hips,

Licks our lips, sips

Her coffee as her eyes meet yours,

And she is like the moon,

Bright and bare,

And it is she

With whom you fall hopelessly in love;

I sometimes wonder –

Will you settle with me,

Or would you rather I surrender,
Wholly,

To she?