"…all human life and endeavor is futile but art redeems us, if only briefly."
It begins with the inability
to tell her how you truly feel.
For your feelings are far greater
than your pathetic words.
disappear into the atmosphere.
You must figure out a way to keep them here,
She will speak only in water colors
and lower case letters.
And prefer blank pages
over lines on her paper.
She will have beer over liquor,
and coffee over wine.
So you will write her letters
and send her pictures
and shooting star showers.
She will marvel at hummingbirds,
and count the ants in the grass,
and name the clouds in the sky.
She will make you more you
than you’ve ever been before.
You will move to the city with her,
but she’ll dream of the country side.
Places where you can wish upon a star,
and actually see it shine.
She will bring home sticks still wet with mud,
leaves and branches full of bugs.
She will hang them on your walls,
and pile them in corners.
Vines will creep beneath the carpets,
and carpathian bellflowers will bloom in your bed.
She will awaken in tears some nights
and ask if you’re certain you love her.
She’ll say she understands she’s flawed,
and sorry she still gets scared of the dark,
Sometimes the scars,
are all she can see.
Is what you will say.
are not imperfections at all.
But tiny perfections