not tragedies

let there be coffee
and someone who wants to kiss me for hours
and will play endlessly with my hair
and won’t mind that I am silent quiet slipaway shy quicksilvery fey
and badly damaged
someone who can see past the smokescreen of okayness
who will not expect me to save them (I am flat-out saving myself)
where are the sparks
where are the fireworks (even one would suffice)
where oh where did the needle in the haystack vanish to
an ocean of fiftythousand
everyone exists except that one sliver of silver
of summerchance
and if I can’t find you;
then you probably don’t exist.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *