A melting snowflake
hopelessly enamored by a summer rain -
a blind shot that I’m in love.
But what if I’m playing Russian roulette without a bullet?

My eyes have made enough lunch dates with the ground for marriage.
My hands have caressed a pen
trying to capture the aesthetic of her name on a blank page
because releasing “hello” is too much of a struggle against my tongue’s heart.

I live my life through passing fogs
cleared only by hearing “beautiful”
tumble off her pink, cracked lips.
I’m only beautiful when she needs me.

Her rejection fades in disparaging comparison
to her absence of words.
No is an answer.
Silence is Anxiety’s lover.

And coffee has never been my cup of tea,
but if she were willing to invite me,
I would drink a ***
to listen to her talk about Shakespeare as if they lived in the same time.

I want nothing more than to trace the soft wrinkles on the backs of her hands
the way my finger yearns to chase raindrops across a splintered windshield.
My mind is a vagabond that wanders through memories I have never experienced
and wonders if she would open her umbrella to me when the clouds weep.

She is everybody’s normal, but
she is my perfection.