Horace, Ode 5

Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa...

Pyrrha, you bring the smell of burned honey

to the middle of a rose garden, even.

With two fingers you take a rubber band

from between your lips, catch up your ponytail

and flip it in that new guy's face.
He just stands there glazing over in the updraft.
Your smell is so strong, so hot,
he wants to lunge on you.

I see it happening now, in this order:
first you dump him and second his life tanks
and he ends up taking a cruise to forget you
but it's through the Bermuda Triangle

where he goes down in a whirlpool the size of a helicopter.

It could take months or years. Whatever.
Until then you'll be good as gold, right?

But when you do go it’s quick as wind.

Out of nowhere.
Ten minutes later he'll feel ten degrees colder.
You'll leave him as easily
as you always told yourself you would.

Miserable are those for whom you shine untested

Not me, sister.

I’ve come away north from all your crazy weather.
I nearly drowned once which was enough.