The letter I never sent,
I write my valentine on my beating heart,
And send a perennial prayer,
That you could know without knowing.
Petals on your doorstep,
But no signature,
Pink Rosehip on your bedsheets,
Spying through your window blinds,
At someone I invented.
A label that travels as my desperations move it,
How I value the sick,
The unnatural,
The corpse and the comfort.
The will to pull me off the train,
The weight of every station,
The ommitance after the deprication,
And the awkward silence after the cosmic joke.
I lust for that iced libation,
The roseate water of ivy and redemption,
A clay to fit inside my insatiable skin hunger,
A welcomed error of continuity in my own beliefs,
And my perennial prayer,
For an ardent antiphon.
-Unabaitingly, The Romantically Inept
