I've got a handbag full of stanzas
with your name all over them.
By the end of each week
I've crushed every word
into dust
and I watch from my window
as the crumbs rise
to form the milky way
(your favorite).
As the ruins ascended
through the layers of atmosphere,
they lost all consistency.
To you, they were minute flecks of gold
sparkling in the sky.
I linger on the impolite outskirts
of wishing-wells
and for each coin that ebbs to the floor,
I surrender another page to you.
And who knows,
maybe this complex is not complex at all
- a simple thread needing to be scored,
or maybe that
would be the end of me.
For all I know,
you're made of smoke and mirrors;
I could only hope for such a mild disease.