I Think I Might Be Falling In Love With You

Queen Mab would always call me
if she’d been drinking in the afternoon.
And not just once. Twice at the very least.
Sometimes 3 or 4 or 5 times in quick succession.
And each time, her attempts at conversation
would prove less and less coherent.
And would rely more and more on talk of
baby dragons and faerie folk, and questions
about what colour my wings were that day.
Or about what kind of tail I’d been born with.
Questions, I always found it impossible to answer.
She liked my smell and she liked my socks.
She liked my smile and my ears. And she particularly
liked that bit of skin just behind my ears. So she said.
I think she probably liked me a little too much.
Which was part of the problem.
Some people are destined to stick like glue and slowly
worm their way into your heart’s ventricles like a blood clot.
Whereas others, it seems, simply spin into your orbit,
oscillate for a while and then spin away again;
back into the cold dark void of space.
To punctuate the human skin and penetrate
all the way through to the heart, a blade of
at least three inches in length is required.
For this reason, I’ve set up a metal-detector at my front door.
For this reason, I’ve instigated my very own knife amnesty.