My Prince

She chose paisley as the color
of the tears that flowed down my face.
I more imagined the pattern
being blood spattered
and gore covered like my vision
of the world today.

Turns out, as things often do,
much more simple and less cerebral.
She watched Prince on MTV
and masturbated to visions of
Purple Rain.
Shirtless, sweaty torso
growling into the microphone
on a hot August night,
Outdoors in Camden Park LIVE
(via satellite.)

She chose paisley as the color
of the tears that flowed down my face.
Van Gogh or Picasso
had nothing on the caricature
she painted of our twisted love,
and the way we sang
Raspberry Beret and
Little Red Corvette
as a night cap
to the evenings passion.

The tears flowed down my face,
weaving a pattern of paisley
as the words,
"I never wanted to be your weekend lover
I only wanted to be some kind of friend
Baby I could never steal you from another
It’s such a shame our friendship had to end..."
echoed in my ears, and intermingled
with the blood, and tears,
to slowly roll away and dry;
a bad memory.

Submitted to Arsenic Lobster Poetry 3 May 2009.