What if those sweet little nothings were
Worsted-alpaca analogies told
in the order of when they became
aesthetic freckles; marginal matter.
Like scribbled secrets,
tattletaling exactly who stole the cookie
from the proverbial jar.
We all knew it was the snake
with the forked tongue
and watermelon-seed eyes
-or maybe it wasn’t.
Maybe we fell into the chasm
where the compulsion faded
and repulsion basted
Among the two of us,
we consumed one too many
to last the remainder of our heartbeats.
We live in a world where our spice packets
talk to us
with words that resonate like
screams in a padded room.
A sultry glance
from the FatBoySmiles font
and squeak of perforated plastic…
your head’s spinning;
“Will you marry me?”
Quick, dramatically sigh and nod your head
-don’t forget to choke back sobs.
Today you tiptoed…
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