I found you, poem, in my pen. Took you out for a night on the town, and even to the lecture I was scheduled to give. How odd to have only just met and then be cramming our tongues down one another’s throats like that, in front of all those strangers. I hate to corrupt a fresh young poem such as yourself, hate to take advantage, but you were so into me, and I was smitten with you.
So we were off, and there was nothing to be done about it. No disguising our literary lust, the pronounced hunger in our throaty voices. On further examination, I found myself tearing your clothes off and throwing you up onto the podium, which is actually expected of a poet by any audience worth its salt.
Still, how wildly unexpected to get it on like that in front of such a good turn-out, and then to do it again late in the evening at a second impromptu revision pulled from thin air in a dim corner of a hole-in-the-wall dive bar, the one where all the hipsters go on Friday nights to complain and be snarky.
Of course after all that, I invited you to come up with me at the end of the night. We celebrated with a bottle I’d been saving in the hope that someone just like you might come along someday. I drank most of it myself, you whispering sweet nothings in my ear.
Imagine my disappointment when I woke the next day to find you gone, a smoke ring, another one-night stand in my literary love life.