wallflower

poetry is just an afterthought of love-
a child's crazy scribbles made from
chalk upon the cracked pavement or a
graffiti artist's wild vandalism, resembling
a suicide note written at the back
of a monet painting

it's the eighth crumpled piece of paper
you threw straight into the trash
can like a professional
three-point shooter

a wallflower's faux pas during prom
when her left heel got broken and
everybody else thought
she had a limp

it's the incessant ticking of the clock
the sound of an insomniac's heavy breathing
the midnight's effervescent lullaby
when darkness ruptures from the sky
whispering sibilant prayers
for the dead

it's the echo of gravel
whilst a pick-up pulls
into the driveway

it's the magic of dawn
right before the sun rises
singing its song with the zephyr

it's the repercussions of
my worn-out fingers typing
on the frayed keyboard

it's the aftermath of dreams
the aftertaste of winter
the afterburn of holding your hand

it's the secret melody playing
your very own soundtrack
like a special mixtape
on the stereo

it's the rhythm of my heartbeat
in tune with the rain
and my own tears

it's the ghost that haunts me
even with my eyes wide open

it's me staring into the horizon,
tracing stars and searching
for an outline of your face

.
.
.

but i am just a footnote to you