Our love was slow-roasting.
If we were chicken,
it would have fallen off the bone.
I can see now,
on this night
with it's moon as silky
as freshly laundered sheets,
that all I cared for was small.
And that my thinking them small
made them all the smaller.
There's no one to blame but me.
This, I now can see.
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 9:59 PM UTC
Our love was slow-roasting.
If we were chicken,
it would have fallen off the bone.
I can see now,
on this night
with it's moon as silky
as freshly laundered sheets,
that all I cared for was small.
And that my thinking them small
made them all the smaller.
There's no one to blame but me.
This, I now can see.
