Letters Barely Sent

What if those sweet little nothings were
just… checkmarks?
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
strep-inflicted throats.
Among the two of us,
we consumed one too many
saccharine-coated flimflams
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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