the month of bursting hearts and aching flowers...in nervous hands. i lie still, so the vapor of you doesn't stir away. but i'm used to the coming and going, that ever swinging door.
so, i fall in love with dylan and his sullen art, with degas and pastel tulle, with the rose quotes in the garden where romeo lies with juliet... i escape to that cabin in wisconsin where heartbreak is raw and bone cold.
i'm always too late or too early. ten years gone, now twenty. too soon. not enough time, waiting, always waiting. i measure it all in notes, in filled notebooks with dog-eared edges and smeared ink stains.
will this be the year? when small hands will open me and soft eyes say yes?
~~~