Valentine

I'd pluck a red red rose
for you to cynically deride;
buy perfumed scents to thrill your nose
before you snort and set aside.

I'd write you sonnets spilling tears
for stolen summers, vanished days,
to make you mock and block your ears,
denying foolish memories.

I'd kiss your lips to cure their curse
but strangers do not tender kisses:
innured to spite, for better for worse
we masquerade as Mr and Mrs.