My verse can’t

breathe

without you.

the shiny U, though, the

tuning fork U
 
 
it isn’t a fish for heaven’s sake!

(though sometimes it does )

it doesn’t respire,

(though sometimes it’s fly)

it isn’t Star Wars,

(though sometimes it’s jedi)

or stately building Cary Grant & Tom Hanks scaled

–it’s not an empire!

(though sometimes it strikes back)

and it isn’t warm milk.

(though sometimes it’s soothing)

it doesn’t expire.

(though sometimes it’s sour)

derived purely

from

breath…

shiny tuning forks feed

its melody

–or lack thereof—

inspire—

(duh)

I couch words carefully

since going futon- free,

and so far,

it’s a workable arrangement…

putting only those on the table

I can afford to misplace

–and look for frantically

when they escape me—

I don’t miss the stuffing…

padded, and made of throats

I don’t miss the Nook…

preferring hardcopy

I don’t miss having trouble

rising,

and I don’t miss the

burlap

sham

that encased it…

worn out sham

the frame is the only real part of it

I miss…

the brighter weave where it once rested,

a reminder.

I thought I had an

angel

on my shoulder,

but it was just the

angle…

the angle of my squared.

and I thought I wore my

heart

on my sleeve,

but it was just a shadow…

a shadow showing

hurt

in a whole new light.

and I thought I had the

devil

behind me,

but it was just a trick…

a trick because I was

loved

after all.