I wrote a perfect poem once. I scribbled it down on the back of a half used napkin. It wasn't short and is wasn't long. The lipstick laced food marks couldn't taint what was already perfect. There was no love and no sadness in the words. It embodied only emptiness - it's most pure form. Nothing left wanting, no thirst unquenched.

In a moment of clear sight, I knew only the right words were forming. In that moment the half empty bar around me sunk, drowned, imploded and combusted - for all I cared. I had just written a masterpiece.

the cushioned seats and inflated beats
the window cracked and the slippery December chill
glanced into our sitting like quiet falling leaves
as the sun descended behind the swollen green hill

the exasperated haze of a cerulean film
a lungful of our smitten reels
a crack of laughter to follow soon after
with silence ringing like clear warm water

simply sitting with knees tucked in
our hearts soaked with the softness of the moment
our chatter rustling like those December leaves
as our half-glanced smiles lift into the beat

all i need
right now,
with the hounds
breaking my thread,
capsizing in
my head
is a little bit
of
oxygen