White paper stars perhaps glitter too much to me; that is,

I'm starving for consistency, charmed by

square sugar cookies and your so-typical smiles:

a strung-up strand of pretty monochromes, still-photograph eccentricity;

a small town mind, and spiced tea.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Typically cold-shoulder shy: ravenous, I echo blushes

with shrugged apathy (needless to say I'll never read

half-poetic love notes in your cursive (like font)). Worthless

I feel in scrawl slipshod, typically disordered;

plastered with vague alibis, insomniac

to your eight hours and round breakfast;

and perpetually

frustrated at the crayon-chaos outside life's intended lines

I know I cross.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Ache. is the feeling left after paper cuts; you are carved too cleanly,

stenciled star of my unsettled sight.

Gleam, then: color moonbeams blue with shivering up at stars, I will -

but not coalesce to crystal structure clear enough (nor pure enough)

to cut diamond-blade through my own rich self-doubt and blush back

good enough for you.