Treacherous

I loved a man
named after Charles Bukowski.
Like him, he loved women too
but not more than he adored painting.

I loved a man
who loved women too plenty.
I said, "How do I let you in
if you've been inside so many?"

I loved a man
with fingers like poetry.
They were paintbrush bristles
smoothly gliding on my canvass body.

I loved a man
I fancied writing about the most.
He was a stormy afternoon by the bay
dragging me with his current.

I loved a man
with a towering ego.
He claimed to be a hero
but his lips tasted like heroin.

I loved a man
who felt like a bad habit I struggle to kill
I guess I stayed a little too long
just for the thrill.