Kit Kat

The men I know
invite their chosen ones
to lustrous night clubs
their favorites – to fancy restaurants.
They send hundred-dollar bouquets
of long-stem, thornless roses
in cardboard boxes,
padded with silky soft
red paper – like in coffins.
They choose Argentinian wines
to pour in crystal glasses,
property of the penthouses
of the most luxurious hotels.
They have elevated conversations
about ratings, stocks,
marketing, and lots more nonsenses.
They travels thousands of miles,
to buy their shirts.
They collect cigars, soaked
with the sweat of miserable Cubans
and wave their ecobags
from the back seats of their Mercedes
like flags for their virtues.

And you’re offering me a Kit Kat,
which doesn’t match at all
with my Versace dress,
smiling charmingly
in your worn-out jeans,
which you don’t care for,
and I suspect, that you don’t care
for my Manolo Blahnik shoes either,
your offer me to share it
on the bench in the park.
You tell me: I like your dimples
and the cat-like shape of your eyes
and the ocean in your pupils.
Then, very casually
you speak about the weather,
about the heat waves, the rain,
about the fog, which you like,
about the mailman,
who makes you laugh with jokes,
about the beggar outside your door.
You naturally swipe
the Kit Kat crumbs off my lap,
wipe, laughing, the chocolate from my lips,
serve me a kiss
in the bar „Under the Stars“
and I just suddenly
find the happiness
in an empty,
red wrapper
from a Kit Kat

Ivet Aleks

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