On someone called Migraine

Like an illicit lover, he came to pay a visit (exactly after her husband left);
this time, with a suitcase. (Perhaps a way of saying, I’ll stay for long?)
The abhorred lover, seemed familiar with my place,
and always came at odd times.


Once inside, he made grating conversation, and thrived on coffee.
So numerous were his visits, that he had
designated a favorite place, a corner (near a temple, behind the cool shades of her eye).


He also had a taste for music, The Metallica, (or that’s what she reckoned) ,
you know, those guys with drums and all.
Akin to the mighty mosquito, that was immune to repellents,
our man here seemed to show the finger, to humble Paracetamol.
She had had enough.
He had been around for three days, chewing, irking, demanding more coffee;
that’s when she offered him something else (it was not in her to be violent),
that seemed like an unexpected assault.
A stench of lavender spread,
dizzy and nauseous, and sure of being sedated on the sly, he was asked to leave.

Humiliated, he finally left and snoozed off in a Barista,
only to wake up to the aroma of Full City Roast.
Alive again, rubbing his hands with glee, he found his prey-
a woman who had in front of her, an empty box of tissue and four Espresso shot glasses,
(she almost seemed to signal with her bulging red eyes, come hither sweetheart, make me yours).
Now ain’t that head a welcome abode, he told himself, excited.
Hi honey, how about sharing a Jamaican?