Will you be my Valentine? Next
year of course. When the red and
white polka dots star out the
night and I am confounded
with your beauty.
Why haven't I written, you ask?
I have dumped my life's colors
onto pages
and into notebooks for you.
I am a woman of many words.
I describe events in the shells and fossils along the beach we walked when we loved each other.
I am engraved by the events
of your stone hard meanings.
I wrap your adjectives in the
filo dough which lines me and
through which my delicate
remembrances filter.
You are the spoon with which I am measured. Myself into your coffee and cream, you into my death defying
dare to life.
Caroline Shank
Aug 21, 2021
Aug 21, 2021 at 4:04 PM UTC
Will you be my Valentine? Next
year of course. When the red and
white polka dots star out the
night and I am confounded
with your beauty.
Why haven't I written, you ask?
I have dumped my life's colors
onto pages
and into notebooks for you.
I am a woman of many words.
I describe events in the shells and fossils along the beach we walked when we loved each other.
I am engraved by the events
of your stone hard meanings.
I wrap your adjectives in the
filo dough which lines me and
through which my delicate
remembrances filter.
You are the spoon with which I am measured. Myself into your coffee and cream, you into my death defying
dare to life.
Caroline Shank
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