He left a napkin at the bar,
Soaked with the sweat of his drink.
In runny ink (the shade of my pen's)
He sketched America on her head,
Boldly proclaiming the best of herself
As her blue-blood trickled down—
With the consistency of —
Her abrading rocky *******.
Below, this renegade had writ
In scribbled (nearly foreign) print,

"The one I love is dead."

What is your fear—that you are not
beautiful?
The valley's are jealous, my true.

The story is truer than you will
not know,
trailing roots in the rivers of snow.

The patterns of sand the Sahara
makes by hand
can't grasp your vexing shape.

And it is your heart I so found in
the dark,
nestled stark in the moss of a cave.

What is your fear—that they will not
love you?
Be patient once more, my sky.

The moon will deceive you to thinking
that so,
but—listen, my love—not I.