I felt her hand, 

heard the thwuck of the straw,

and walked to the back of the store to find something

worthy of my words. 

 

She didn't want to go,

it was a boring spot,

but I held her hand tighter and

dragged with as much love as 

my impatience could muster. 

 

The wall was filled with

colors and flowers,

a galloping horse and Van Gogh, 

a pattern of pink high-heeled shoes,

and I looked up and down and said "Find something

cool." 

 

She didn't but I did. 

 

It was bluer than I, smelled better than the chocolate on

her tongue, 

felt better than a kiss. 

 

I selected it with care, 

ran a finger across the gilded pages,

oh, oh

it was mine. 

 

For $12.99? 

 

It was mine. 

 

So I made a quill and I 

wrote what was true and mean, 

Holocaust and rape and anger, 

and the rage bled onto the gilded pages 

and I could hear its heard beat beneath my pillow

all night until 

I set it by my bed. 

"I dare you to read it." 

I don't think anyone did.