We write our stories on crinkled coffee shop napkins, with cheap jet black eyeliner. Rough at the edges, smudged lines; fairytales but with tragic endings and without sparkling bliss.
Rays of sun through glass windows compete with our clouded minds and rainy eyes. Sorrows braided into galaxies, puddles made into swimming pools.
We are just spilled paint in an art portfolio, the shards in a broken mirror.
I’ve lost my words,
hopelessly swirling downwards
Without them I’m nothing
more than empty vowels.
Give me your letters,
stitch them together,
string them up by their holes.
No punctuation, no dots or semi colon
will keep me from your story.
Give me a question mark,
and I have an exclamation point
Just for your paragraph.
My love has two left feet
She waddles about and I cannot help
laughing when she dances around the Christmas tree
My love has one lazy eye
Sometimes I occasionally hide
from her in plain sight when she wants me to help make pie
My love is the one
I forever shall deeply and truly love
even if a bit whimsy she still holds this love of mine