Ask what fate is to dandelions,
For I am clumsy, loving you,
Peeking when was asked to dream,
Glad seeing you.

I am no cloud, no air, no wind,
And balloons have long fled from my wrist
Touching the convoluted power lines somewhere
In the rural south of my country.
But I hold your hand with my hand, so light,
Like the line of a kite, too high to make a run for,
That I cannot state with words, with poems
What's so heavenly about it
Or without it that is about you, except
As such, this mutual touch.

I chased a single drop
Not knowing what will hit me.
I'm drenched, soaked all over.
Rain poured down, heavily.
I gain what's unexpected,
And love...is undeserved.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

perfection can be subjective
you are perfect in my eyes
i will be your piece of meat
your sudden pawn of compromise

preferences are not elected
it's a feeling of larger size
better judgement takes a seat
while impulses take the prize