Your kisses repel me like wasabi to a fresh tongue-
out of a cushioned womb.
I can get use to it,
to you
But never love it,
never crave the taste-
but more the gesture of eating,
Or kissing.
I mistok you for gwackamole,
a gentle type.
Instead I found mustard who alit at the presence of horseradish
And gave birth to wasabi
under the devils rule.
The taste of actual sushi lust,
Is merked by your bitterness.
That old grain of rice,
And that black bit
you pass, from your mouth,
To mine.
Always kiss someone
before you tell them you like them.