she took a piece
delicious little tart I spun
her some yarn on the off chance she still harboured any romantic illusions I dished out some tired old boiler plate straight from the top shelf an awkward confection of fractured truths and outright posture
she said somebody stole her cinnamon but that someone wasn’t me by the time I got to her she was shelling it gratis to every punk drifter who cast her a glad eye
I was aware of her derelict status and her approximate cliché she’d cut a raw deal from life she dreamed of adulation but settled for acceptance it was always quid pro quo with her she always returned affection because she felt obliged I told her she was easy she did not reply
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