I'm running away into the perfumed halls of department store comforts, an empty place to exist. Did you shoo me away because my pockets were turned inside out, or was it my chapped lips & flyaway hair? I can't help it if I spend my days running tender fingers down crooked book spines instead of shining my shoes, or my nose, or my plait, or whatever the establishment tells the glossy publications to dictate "must shine." I'd climb Walt Disney's tallest Cinderella turret if it meant that I could be one step, one rung closer to being less or more of a threat, hope to you. (I've been a fool for lesser things, you said to me, in time with the jukebox.) I suppose if you'd been more positive I'd have shrugged it off as well, he just knows the words) but sterling silver keepsakes (slid beneath the dresser, broke the clasp on the hardwood floor) remind me to take your lyrical laments seriously. And I do.
That's when I'll lean forward and whisper (hush, now, drop the commas to leave them guessing,
honey, sweet like honey in my herbal tea, I think I love you.
(and it doesn't mean a thing)