“I love you”
“I loved you too”

“I’m here to stay”
“But you walked away”

“I accept, I bow”
“I’m sorry but I have to go”

“You can’t be going”
“I was tired of waiting”

“But I have come back”
“Sorry I have changed my track”

“You said you’d die without me”
“I did. When you left me“

“I need a chance. A last one. Take me back”
“We are in different worlds.
You, 10 feet above the ground
And me, 10 feet down”

“I’m sorry, I’m late”
“It’s right when they say, you can’t really fight fate”

She's in the kitchen
(close the door)
just mixin' up some metaphor;
a true conundrum
through and through
and through to me and thus to you.

Her humble hunger
(forest's slumber)
thunders 'neath a wilting tune;
tuned to too many
to count without
a thought within.

She must profess
(but shall confess)
to any who will listen;
closely she holds
a tragic history
mostly mystery to most.

She solves my soul
(I deny that hole)
which she still fills;
overflowing always
with such unrelenting joy
that is My Love.

Curls.
Lengthened, stretching
Auburn curls.
Winding around the delicacies
Of profound life.
Growing incandescently
In a newfound, unsound method.
Vibrant with innovation,
Yet in the same instance, arid.

Questionable.
Irresistible.
Undefinable.
Desirable.
Allego­rical.
Many are awe-struck by this oracle --

She loathes her curls.