Tell XYZ

Tell XYZ that his perfume smells of a thousand other body-sweat configured perfumes. Ask him, "How many women did you hug on the way before you got to your final lover's home?" Tell XYZ that his warm embraces in the midnight have grown cold, he has forgotten the labyrinth of my curves because he now drives on many other bended 'roads'. 

Tell XYZ that he came home yesterday with a red lip-shaped poster on his forehead, telling me "The traffic at Molete was terrible." Tell XYZ that Molete is a bad metaphor for the legs that have tied his senses to a pole, making it hard for him to lie intelligently. 

Tell XYZ, my XYZ, that I read the content of his chat messages when he sits opposite me, through the reflections on his eye-glasses. Tell XYZ that life is too short, let him break the rules. Life is too short, drink wine, more, some more. Tell XYZ that his night meals are not accompanied with wine, but then, XYZ, drink some more.  Tell XYZ that he drinks his death in glassfuls every night. Tell XYZ that I too will be home late in the months to follow because traffic will be bad at Mokola. On those nights, he will cry his silenced heart away on his sick bed, praying for a death that will only come when I am satisfied. Tell XYZ, I will be a good widow.