The expiration date on the
sticker on your forehead
is blurred.
This taunts me like soft
music on a tense day;
the kind that would distress
you until you soak it
fully in – forced
epiphanies encouraging
unapologetic weaknesses.
You’re not a poet and neither
am I, but there is poetry on
the tips of your fingers and
there are guitar strings on the
fist-sized organ in my chest
and baby, you might think
you’re tainted and broken
beyond sympathy but all I
can see is you fixing me
and this is you playing with
my strings again so I can’t
take all the credit.
The warm outline of my lips
in place of that sticker
says more about you and me
anyways.
Solecisms 