he's a bright sunday morning
full of hope and faith and praise
for the one you worship right
then while he sits right next
to you, your knees almosttouching
and your hand{s} lying palm-up in
case the other feels the need to
hold it.
he's fried chicken after church
with baked beans and a side of tradition
in a sharpblacksuit that looks
dashing on his slim figure but you
don't say it because you're afraid
of yourself.
he's sitting on the porch swing
next to you while you debate the
intelligence in asking him to take a
walk through the meadow across the way.
he's a bouquet of lavender with small
sprigs of babies breath that he says
remind him of you, though you can't
imagine why. "they're different, but still
beautiful." it's almost "iloveyou", but
not quite.
he's in love, but not with you
"you're my best friend," he says, smiling.
and your fairytale falls down
around you in beautiful shards of nonsensicalnonsense^