saccharin.

when do i get
to speak ill
of you?
the sentiments cramp
and dull hindsight.
i stutter to call you
coward,
choke on amorous titles
neither of us deserved
or earned.
you are still black coffee
on the mornings after wine.
you are a cigarette's glow
in a damp alley.
how can i liken you
to grit and filth
when you mimic the subtleties
of a life so beautiful
and mundane?