DearHands

I. If this were a cliché, A poem, or both It would be about sparkling midnight skies and heartbeats and flowers and sex. There would be oceanic eyes and rain that tastes like tears. We’ll throw in anxiety-riddled murmurs and metaphorical bullets and allusions to sharp objects for pity. This is not a cliché anymore. So instead I wrote about the flavor of emerald and the fragrance of April hope. I painted pictures of a perfect pencil, poised over a blank page. II. If this were a romance, A message in a bottle, or both It would still be cliché, to capture electric fingers and longings locked away with skeleton keys