A Little Thing Called Life

It’s the white/ black extremes, clean cut and precise with no room
for goosebumps that hold double-meanings of terror and excitement.
It’s the shades in between, the room to interpret because
a warm embrace can suffocate, tears can fall from pain or laughter,
and a lover’s whisper can hold a tenderness liars lack.
It’s the make-ups and break-ups, and every piece scattered along the way.
The early morning talks, breakfast in bed and coffee stained breath, or
the nervous sweat on palms unsure of the next step.
It’s up-to-your-head-in-mud messy, whose forecast is uncertain at best;
the quirky kind of beautiful never meant to be kept neat and clean,
wrapped safely in poetic verse.