sitting down to write
is overly romantic
and words
saccharine semantic
and words and worse
never once pedantic
and words and worse and worst
avidly self-mantric
and words and worse and worst and were
this just an antic

don't ask me what I want to do.
i want to hold your hand (… i know) and stop tensing up,
feel your face and easily breathe and
slide you over atop my arm and rest my brain.
i want to feel you're close on a night like this and forget about the words (i always mess them up),
catch a glimpse of the stars in your eyes (there's Virgo's diamond) and
meet your gaze and kiss your smile (i've been wanting one too),
but we can get coffee (sure, which Starbucks?), see a movie (yeah that one does look funny) or
whatever you want to do.

A lengthy week and tears too few have marked this situation: time undone, a race not run, an absent aspiration. No half-assed tries at lullabies could make the years worth more. Flippant thoughts and fights not fought do all to underscore the days we spent in constant truth, and the days we only lied. We are, ourselves—closed books on shelves—, an audience denied. So take my heart and take my words, do with them as you will—hide them, chide them, or tear them up; I'll only love you, still. Try what you must, be what you can, and live the life you need. You be the flower, oh beauteous power, and I your withered ****.