I used to have a thesaurus in place of my heart,
fifty-thousand words to say how I hoped
I would someday feel.
In place of love, I had a fountain pen with a bent nib.
Instead of kisses, I had wirebound sketchbooks.
While other girls, giggling, wrapped
   phone cords around their fingers,
I wrapped sestinas in proper syllabics around enjambements.
        tiny crushes were
        replaced by Haiku gently
        wafting on the page
Love sick sighs were ignored in an echoing of
   alliteration and onomatopoeia,
and now I look at you and I rack my heart,
but I can't come up with the right . . . .

As the story continues,
two kindred spirits merge into one;
chapter after chapter,
like a rose is a rose is a rose.
For a relationship – what do we prefer?
Prose or poetry? Long-term or short-distance?
At some point enjambements, I guess.
The arc of suspense lets its arrow fly
into the well-known unknown.
It never fails, it always hits.
But why cutting long stories short?
The attention-span has become so thin,
almost as thin as truth and justice.
I mean, sometimes I would like to find
needles in hay-stacks
and blow everything up here.
Wouldn‘t that be fun and childlike.
But hey, I found someone to love,
I mean to really love, and not just to love.
Someone to cuddle and bodyheat with,
someone to spend an entire week with
in a rainy windy city behind thick-skinned walls.
Well done! Bravo! Lucky you!
The arc of suspense lets its arrow fly.
I admit, that’s the most difficult part.
What I love about this?
He might be the one.