Sometimes a card,
usually a rose -
a velvet bud
wantonly red.
Last year
your valentine
was a chocolate heart
wrapped in scarlet paper.
It seemed a pity
to bite into that perfect shape,
yet as the chocolate melted
on to my warm fingers
I curled my tongue around the curves,
licked inward to the soft, sweet centre.
You watched with wry amusement.
We both knew that your heart was a cheat,
ticked on a hair-spring,
unreliable, dead beat.
Your mouth tastes of bitter chocolate,
you had said.
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