In my book of failed endeavors,
you are the folded up corner
of the page I keep revisiting.
And your paper speaks out
in the way most papers speak out
(except yours is maybe whispering)
and it taunts me every time
I find myself parting
the pages to find you,
and you say those three words
that set my skin ablaze
“you are perfection“
and the words tickle my fingers the way your tongue tickled my
ears that first night I wrote you in and
I must admit
you not only breathed life
into me; you resuscitated a
a word that seemed to escape me
lifetimes ago.
And I will swear on your deity of choice
that I still feel a hundred pretty yous sitting on my chest.
Solecisms 