A terrible spill of the heart leaves a poisonous ink blotch
the size of affection on the collar of a man’s finely pressed dress shirt.
While it slowly expands it has a way of changing
the embroidered initials on the cuff to the initials that belong to a lover.
A sort of perfume escapes, along with a gasp from his mouth,
as his lungs expand and cause a friction against his rib cage.
A friction he wishes would stay in his pants but pulls at
his wallet and his Adam’s apple.
He tries to gulp his own thoughts down to the pit of his stomach,
just above his belt buckle.
A punch drunk jive creeps into his argyle sock
and makes him twitch with a caffeinated pleasantry of anticipation.
He wears an expression
of a Lost Boy and squares his shoulders so that he can appear just like a Darling.