with a moonglow
face of anticipation
she scraped my heart
off her shoes,
peeling away yesterday
dropping me on the
obituary page,
but i was not done,
love was more
than her birdhouse breasts
that held secrets
chirping in a way i could
not feed,
or those hands
that interlocked mine
for walks past lake and wood
that promised more,
conscious of her
beating out a parade
of emotions
that marched staggered and
fell under my influence,
i would have to join in
pick up the beat,
dragged from floor grazed
and bleeding,
no flowers in paper wrap,
no chocolates
or soft music,
a demonstrate grander
needed,
or else i would remain
detested and dropped,
to configure a new way to
my lfe without her.