Love is high.

Oh God, I‘m an extremist; idealist

who sees the world tinted and perfumed

pink.

That must be the color of

love.

-:- -:- -:-

I can’t seem to stop decorating

your name with sparkles and

silver sharpies,

which reflect that

royal hue.

Let me worship you.

-:- -:- -:-

Love must be when you’re drunken-high,

because what I’m feeling isn’t

really reality.

I’ve been cloud-hopping; I’ve crossed nine.

I’m jumping.

I’m falling.

-:- -:- -:-

I want to feel rock bottom.

From this point,

it doesn’t look so bad.

-:- -:- -:-

I guess I expect too much from

the inner-workings of my head.

I’ll be dead before you

ever see me

tinted pink.

(I’ll settle for you kissing my grave.)