Verge

Sitting by a French parlour,
sipping champagne,                                       
He speaks to me,
most polished, so sophisticated                       
Classy, like the fountain we saw
earlier by a bridge,            
A crystal glass, off white pearls,
water touching them gently,
like his fingers touching mine,
Clean nails, everything is so refined about him,
Like a king he speaks, like an emperor he walks
                                                    
His eyes catch the sun and my heart is on fire,
He drinks, ever so tenderly, such lips, my god,
A drop of water, clings jealously to them, refusing to let go,
My heart is now a waterfall,    
lashing mercilessly into boulders,
breaking into foam, freefalling,
He asks me where my thoughts stray,
I smile, he smiles...


And my heart, on the verge, breaks in a frenzy,
A third world savage dancing with pitchforks, 
And love, a bloodshot eye in the night,
Staring at me, hungrily, through the dark...