we’re a-gonna get found out
maybe it’s true,
there’s no poetry
in the meaningless
and yet,
five years later
words are all i have:
i’m making a name
for myself
and i want to find the letters of yours
clutching my hand
when fall
turns from summer
to winter,
(that’s when)
they’re gonna
match the brown in my dress
to the color of yr eyes
or the rhythm in my step
to the curvature
of your smile.