The stitching is frayed on
my patchwork pillow heart,
formed of fabricated memory,
threads of your merciless art.
Your nimble hands picked
free the words you'd sewn,
piercing my core with promises
that heightened my alone.
A needle in your hand, my love,
is worth nothing in the shrub;
like stardust stolen from
the sky, shattered by a cherub,
who, with his golden arrow
plucks such beauty from the sky,
and sprinkles it upon the earth,
diluted by human eye.
The textiles of my essence is
enthralled by who you are,
this glittering, this glistening
mere reflection of your star.
And all you have to do is smile
to entice this sibilance;
Grant me: Be I, the slender dream
girl of whom you sing, perchance?
The fibre of your spirit drowns
me deep in dainty dazzle,
I long to true decipher the
mosaic engraving of your easel.
As I box away the cushion, synoymous
to your serendipity,
something inside you reaches out
to the flutter within me.
How do you do this?
Or are you doing anything at all?
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