I sent you a few too many messages.

Knowing **** well you were offline,
Just hoping you're doing fine.

You didn't even send me a ******* postcard.

Or I don't know,
Maybe the post is just really slow?

I made up two things,
People — or lovers’ rings.
One writes the lines,
The other paints the signs.

So let me share how they feel,
Let me present them as if they were real.

Dorothea or Niki — the dreamer in me.
Doesn’t know which she is anymore.
She’s the version I write in my poetry.
Me as someone to adore.

She speaks in stanzas, dreams in rhyme,
Wishes for a love to last past time.

And then there is Poppy Piume,
She’s a lot like my real world friend.
But in this poetic arc that isn’t her doom.
Here — we are the a story with no end.

She answers in dreams, if not in the day,
A voice I imagine when I drift away.

In my imagination there is no goodbye,
But in sad reality she doesn’t even reply.
So I write, as she paints, and I try not to cry,
And I pretend our silence is just a lullaby.

I left my phone at the hotel.
Everyone else had theirs.
It’s quite a story to tell —
I am the only one who cares.

Everyone was taking photos
To post on Instagram.
No one looked at the shows,
No one gave a ****.

About the songs,
The lyrics, the words.
Everybody longs
To be free, like birds.

But they all just look at their screens
Instead of seeing, feeling this.
I don’t know what that means —
I try to feel bliss.

It kind of works.
I love the music, the lights.
The people on phones are jerks.
Happiness isn’t one of our rights —

It’s a choice.