I skim over poems when I read them, seeking answers in their brevity. Same as when I write; to the point and under the dust of cryptic words. Rhythm and melody as scribbles in ink: all similes and alliteration. Always my black notebook is poised for recording the next mixtape gem or life-altering moment maker. That path is already part of my past and it hearkens me to return. To fall at the feet of my own good ideas and believe they carry weight. Crying over my own sentiment only means I'm being self-indulgent. It was meant to be your happiness. I can convince myself, but I find that my heart's match may not be so easily persuaded. Or I am making substance from the breaths in our conversation, they hold hopes for only moments 'til we turn our tired eyes to opposite sides of the bedroom.
Moving on. Another shot at a catch phrase for finding love.
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