Every queen must have a throne,
but mine is cheap and flimsy.
A plastic chair made in China,
worth less than a dollar,
swaying under my weight.
To stay from falling,
whenever I sit,
I keep myself light and fit.
I stay perched in reticence,
balancing the paper crown
upon my jaded head.
As tendrils of brown hair,
fall to the floor in plain.
Hands and feet crossed,
bound in leather and chains.

You escaped our paradise to risk your own happiness,
I stood on that third floor, numbing my heart,
Covering her eyes to shield from your betrayal.

She felt your touch linger as your fingers slipped through,
I froze all the tears that persisted to fall from my eyes,
Disguising my ice rivers as the spring breeze.

Our Kingdom fell apart as you slammed the door,
Her love strong enough for walls not to collapse,
We stood there in silence as you desert true love.

Walks alone with you,
my hand holding yours
best when counting from sixty-two,
sixty-two minutes along this sandy shore.

A silent gesture,
a smile from ear to ear
all the more becomes sure,
sixty-two hours, love is sheer.

The wind against your hair,
bologna and cheese on your lip.
Deeply spellbound by your stare,
sixty-two days we've tightened our grip.

Walks alone with you,
my hand away from yours.
Love drifting away by the bayou,
Sixty-two weeks, here comes a detour.