The Last Slice of Pizza

She is the sugar in my veins,

and the salt in my wounds.

She is always the bullseye

to all of my bad ideas.

She is addicted to espresso from Mexico,

Frank Sinatra classics, and antique radios.

She makes my heart sizzle, like a hot skillet

doused in bacon grease drizzle.

I chased her tangerine curls through apple cider corn mazes,

watermelon swamplands, and blueberry rainforests.

Only to find her easting strawberries fermented in

maple syrup mead in Vermont with Maine tourists.

She is like the last slice of pizza,

the first shot of tequila, and a

cocaine-rimmed margarita.

She is the Polaroid I stashed inside

of an old wine bottle, and gave to the sea ...

the same damn bottle the moon

continues to return to me.