What I found were
bright spots, vague synchronicities
and phony boys
pretending to have a secret
that they kept from all the rest.
I thought your voice was a trumpet call, 
moving me to tears
and it’s an odd feeling
having watched the dawn
and heard the nightingale.
Did I like it?
I certainly did not.
Instead my heart unknowing
reached for chaos.

Always write at midnight, gaily
any scrap will do 
it seems 
I found her to be difficult, yet charming
and a little doubtful, 
her lies smell of sweet cream 
and the sound of rain.
Now, hush.