Cupid was a Bloke

This is too small for me to fall for.

I just fall asleep. I am stuck in my own set voice; the same rhymes return – neat, cliched noise. Patterns are falling like stock market charts, battered and folding, papercutting hearts that got sidetracked somewhere and forgot their purpose. Or maybe decided the meter was perfect and steady and dull with no variation – forgetful like static on half tuned-in stations, and went off to wander free ranges of verse whose dissonance echoes the way that it hurts when you know that you waited slightly too long to accept the idea that you really belong.

Well, it’s always too late. I have been known to wait, to let too many rests sound before I say: After weighing my options, I think you are great. This could be better if I weren’t so fettered to constant improvement and what the hell ever I do after class, still wet from the walk. My headphones are on so I won’t have to talk.


~ by perfectionatrix on March 30, 2010.

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