i might tell you a story one day
(this is not then),
painting something akin to (love)
in cooler colors & slippery skins,
casual as blue,
whispered as forget-me-not
(as though i could you would we
fear we just might),
one day when i feel you begin
to fade delicately away,
your edges faintly blurring in the sunlight
like a halo’s glow to warn me
that my frou-frou words just aren’t hooks
and here, you don’t belong.

“enough with the silly lies,” you say
certain i tell stories
(well certainly, i tell stories)
and calmly try to give me things,
like mirrors and your honesty,
but i’ve never been one to
separate my dreams from the dawn.
and don’t think for a second
i don’t see your jagged trust:
the way your fingers curl
eversotightly around the edges
of my make-believe…

but oh
how your softer edges almost
make me believe.

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