Disjointed emotions on sanity’s edge,
Tatters of words we’ve already said,
Butterfly flash of what’s under here,
Complex realities of desires we fear.
Wordless and fragile, it remains just the same,
Promise to self that such madness bears blame,
For the idle of our monsters created full-blown,
The very same ones we pretend are unknown.
Mere inches keep apart our lips in grand speech,
Well aware of the time and space we can’t breach,
Too weak it remains to break down this deep need,
Curiosity urging where passions won’t lead.
As paper to paper faced with paragraphs long,
Our closeness to echo the rhythm of song,
The blend of two inks and our colors still wet,
No time for the edit or the twinge of regret.
Just two characters bound to the mystery’s end,
Unsure where the fiction and reality blend?
Or if when the page turns will the story remain,
An anthology of emotions we carelessly feign?