Lost in the chocolate shop

I’m buying a box of chocolates, what would I like?
for my girlfriend, because girls don’t buy their boyfriends,
that’s why I chew my nails, no other reason, I need to buy her
chocolate, can you tell this is important? I’m being serious,
truffles, ganache, cherry somethings
sorts, I feel a bit, out of, sorts,
colours, smells, my eyes can’t take it, the
chocolate shop
there’s no one else, no one I’d ask to stop,
consult on this crucial turning point in my
our relationship,
this will hurt, relationships are hard
you know? the break-ups especially, bad, bad,
could you tell me what it’s like, maybe you do, maybe
I need more than one box, I’ll have
lots more than one, for one, it’s for a household actually
it’s useful, one when it’s trying to multiply, trying to pay for a
double bed on a single salary
or a box each, five, six, I could lead the pity club this Monday
host the little girlies’ get together, dress up in
sympathy colours, it’s an ode to our future romantic employment
in the adult world,
the one we aren’t really in, not by choice, either way, where’s my
lipstick, red, nails, white, more reds, somewhere, might go rogue with some
brown, brown, in all its shapes, hearts even,
can I buy a heart, please? with white chocolate buttons for personality
make that two, one for each of us, me, and her, thank you
they are the sweetest things, I think I might make
hot chocolates and burnt toast my new vibe, new colour, become it,
I’m sure that’s a more attractive aura, she’s warm, toasty, and
what you need at the end of your day, enough, maybe, for now, can’t help it if
he gets bored, needs a new hand, but I’m sure
men love chocolate girls, sweet girls who
do whatever they want, whenever, girls who write them
liquorice poetry and paint their names into their backs in fondant fruit,
girls who wrap themselves up in red,
girls who are gifts, to the world, the magazines, the living dead, girls who
accessorize, fill stockings, prop up
the main character, they’re dream girls, like my parents wish I was,
because isn’t it romantic, the girls who are valentines
perched on the edge of Paris in bathrobes ordering
room-service champagne, messy hair shrugged over pillows,
in beds of rose petals, beds like mine,
I’m halfway there, let’s be honest, it’s a Queen’s, and I’m petite, good things
come in small packages, I must be too good then, I wish I wasn’t
so, brown, size 8, please, I wonder if it would suit me,
could you do the part where someone zips me up, it’s a bit of an
awkward angle and I haven’t found a volunteer

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