At Six-Thirty in the Morning

There’s a woman
who wakes me up
at six-thirty in the morning
and asks me to write a modern ballad
which rhymes –
a thousand words,
or more.

She sends me messages –
I wish she would
write me letters
but who cares about
the letters
when pleasure and relief
are instant.

But not all pleasures
are everlasting.
I decide not to reply to her,
only to hold the pleasures
with much effort
in my veins;
but then,
it bursts out
and my fingers tremble.
I reply to her – fully awake,
like a cupped flower
waiting for the morning dew.

She calls me a sweetheart
and a snarky boy;
the meaning of the latter,
I do not know.
I check the dictionary,
and then, it makes sense.
Once a woman told me:
humour is not your forte.
I had agreed, then.
There are some women
who see through you
through your words.

But for now,
it is sleep
that I agree too.
The pleasure is gone;
the woman I was talking to
is gone.

And now, I am convinced:
just like pleasure,
which does not last for long,
I would not last for long –
in,
and around her.

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