My cinnamon skinned lover lives in a one-room apartment,
Where we meet as often as we wanted to,
Somedays he whispers sweet nothing in my ears while I smile like a lottery winner.
Though I always felt something each time he makes those whispers,
But he feels nothing, as he keeps packs of condoms and cigarettes in his pockets,
He picks a stick and lits it right in front of me,
while I stare at his milk-colored room in my underwear
When he's done drawing strength from those sticks?
He unwraps me like a birthday present and after being unwrapped and explored on,
I ask only or don't even ask for the taxi fare home.
But later I'd realize that I should have asked for more. More than a taxi fare home.