Too late

Eyes so green a cat could, probably,
mistake them for reflection.
Just for a second. When you catch
me by the nervous system –
hook, line and a six second vine,
festering dickensian with romance
and bowler hats.

White roses three days old
from the market boy who likes the way
my tongue flicks, wants to pick
me up at eight in his dads
car for a film and a cheeky
grope in the back seat,
to return the favour.

I told you, it’s too late.

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