She is psychotic and I am neurotic;
if you think this is easy,
I can’t believe you bought it.
Easily sold, so we’re told;
spoken words never so bold,
with the sun beating down
at uneven degrees.

Such a breeze, you see,
but only when it’s just
her and me, and the sea
and everyone else is just
long distant relatives
without postage.

Long narratives
voiced by wind
entertaining us
as we entertain
our skin.

Such interludes we include
on these day-to-day holidays
wherein others delude
what we do.

Oh, what attitude!

Yes, she is the melody
and I am the symphony
and we are the perfect pair;
abandon us alone in the woods
and we wouldn’t even care.
We’d make the best of it,
laugh at your stupid ****.

Oh, so wondrous
is this numbness
seeping into our pores
as we ridicule your pathetic cure
and politely ask for more.

Inventing little games
among the sticks and twigs
and making love in the rain,
where we always win,

except for you,
of course.

So do us all a favor
and return your malicious flavor
back to the shop,
because we don’t want it;
you might as well stop
and leave good be,
or else you’ll see
how the wicked succeed,

or more so, how they don’t,
when in the end
you’re facing a lost friend
questioning your dues,
charming karma registering payments
paid to the psychotic and neurotic lovers
you forgot to forget in the woods
on that faithful holiday
that you stepped in our way.