I do believe we’ve met before;

In the branches of a tree, or

Behind some locked door in a mansion for two.

Despondent and willingly,

I shed my pride for sake of company.

I clicked my heels and wished for you.

 

Concave childhoods, my love, you built

Fragile neighborhoods, above

Guilty clay roses meant to wilt,

And house upon house on all manners of stilts.

Oh, you with chipped fingernails, my dove,

Scratched at two too many hearts made of felt.

 

This boy is a creator, that’s where he belongs;

In workshops with velvet-covered iron prongs.

Yet a soul can only rot for so long,

And pretty love songs can only stay so strong,

And I was wrong. So wrong, my dear.

 

Desperation, resignation, indignation;

We desired a reputation that claimed

You were yours and I was mine.

Not a mistake, dearest, because it’s true:

Purple and purple make red and blue.