Prose, the word flows gracefully from my lips
and leaves the two of us in tears.
I understand, being jealous of these words
and the modern marvels of technological devices.
(Don't tell me I don't understand
that I couldn't ever possibly relate)
Lust, has stripped these sheets of all their silken worth
and left us sleeping cold and alone, back to back.
Love, that once came to me through the front door
has turned its back to thrive in a morning glory frost.
(There is nothing glorious to this
and I'm finding no comfort left)
A vagabond, filtering through her imagination and dreams
A realist, trying to mend her unsewn seams
(How were we ever supposed to survive?)