I like my men cold, dark, and handsome, you say,
and I tell you I have the cold and dark parts
down pat, but I struggle with the handsome bit.
You shrug and let me in anyway, most likely
figuring I’ll get better-looking the more you
drink, but that isn’t going to happen, my dear.
You’ll have to settle, I’m afraid, which I know
makes you cringe, but there’s nothing to be done.
My core temperature plummets as you wrap
your arms around me and the light bleeds away.
Before my eyes close, you whisper you’re not so bad.
Robert Crisp currently hides out in Savannah, GA, where he teaches and keeps strange hours and stranger company. He writes poetry as often as he can. Learn more at www.writingforghosts.com.