I didn’t write this


No matter what oceans you come to cross

Nor the plundering gallops away from hence your snowy ambition drives you

No matter what princes charm your heart and fade, remember always that I will



ever, give a $h!@# about you.

I wouldn’t even be writing this, if I was in my own mind: I’d be at home with my sweet never caramel ice-blended Starbucks and a thick black book full of tattered pages on which stir the words of  true literary giants, which you will never be.

But in your mind, I’m writing this

love poem wherein I will confess:

Nothing at all about you is special. For example:

Your soul with windows for eyes, shuttered sometimes by misty curtains as you try to hide the blasphemous scripture on your irises

But there have been others before and since

With eyes for windows

And souls for lies. So we can knock that one off the list.

To continue,

Your convalescent ascent up the stairs like a guilty vine creeping towards sunlit redemption, your voice that comes like rain in summer, knowing the picnickers don’t have the time or the patience, you lace up anyway satiny white to fizzle away, a firecracker dropped too lightly in the rain

All this delicacy, it drives me nuts –

That is, when I notice it at all, which is hardly often,



Moving right along,

The treasure box I unlocked in you, your inner light only reflecting my always joy like moons in your eyes that are windows, shattered and still you are too fragile to grieve in cascades, you silently offer your words like a tribute, like magic beans that will grow into literary giants if rained upon properly, poems sprinkling sunbeams on deaf ears that didn’t want to hear of salt-encrusted treasure anyhow I was just waiting for the next caffeine hit, the next eternal mystery, the next curveball to karate chop out of the way of my delicate heart before it can be shattered by someone I really care about which

will certainly never be you; there is nothing

particularly special about you

And forever I will love you only

as a husk reconstructed in the Freudian closet you built to memorialize my corpse while my body moves on,

into tomorrow.


Image credits in order of appearance:

CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=534604

http://pascalcampion.blogspot.com/2016/05/last-rays-of-sunday.html – this second image is one amidst a treasure trove of heartwarming, heartbreaking, lovable artworks by Pascal Campion. Look him up!


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