Delightful aroma of your aftershave
fills my senses, overpowering
last night’s burnt-kipper-stench.

After you leave,
I spend long hours
contemplating
(in the dark)
your aftershave’s
sinister significance.

So when you walk back in
with your arm slung around
her waist,
my insides boil
to hear her say ‘Oh dearest,’
as your lips
tattoo their own sonnets
on her slender, smooth neck.

Oh but I know,
I know (or so I console
my rust-taste ache)
she will never see
you weep over
your crack-of-dawn coffee
like I do.

But the next morning
when you set her atop
the kitchen-counter
and she
          runs
             her cold (nasty) fingers
             along my side and drawls,
             ‘Honey, you need to get
             a new toaster,’

I jam her burnt, torn toast
in my spring-loaded chest,
jolting her when
she pokes my heart
with her cat-cruel iron fork.

And I burn both faithless sides
of the slices of your bread.