A close read
reveals that
I am nothing
but a rough draft
riddled with
misspellings—
a work in progress
watered down by
superfluous adjectives,
non sequiturs, and
smothered verbs.
Love is an editor.
She courts me
with a pocket of
sharpened pencils,
blue and red.
She marks me
up meticulously—
dele, stet
dele, stet.
Decades punctuated
by intermittent edits.
Sunlight slanting
through an hourglass.
Her hair as white
as the final page.
When the end comes,
will she love me enough
to give me another pass?