The Box

You brought me flowers,

you picked yourself,

Or sometimes roses,

Off the shelf.

Painted watercolor hearts,

and wrote me stupid rhymes.

You were just about as stupid,

but I didn't know at the time.

I don't miss your caveman feet.

Thank you, inventor of socks.

I put away the things you gave to me,

and labeled it "The Asshole Box."

That... was in a fit of passion,

So I kind of apologize.

I guess, for a while there,

You were a pretty decent guy.

In fact, you have plenty of fans,

though I can't say I understand the hype.

Months later, what can I say?

Mom warned me about "the romantic type".

Puppetry

We wove our world into a web,

a blanket covering our bed,

and inside us, threads ran through,

just as veins and sinews do.

We strung together everything;

our past and future and in-between,

and took and wound it 'round a spool,

with singularity somehow dual.

Each hour spent in my room,

more yarn was added to our loom,

and if we ever had a glitch,

we closed the snag with one more stitch.

There are times, we'll both admit,

that there were skeins we didn't knit,

and all the strands that we forgot,

snaked themselves into a knot.

Oh what a matted mess we found,

when thinking all was tightly bound.

I try to understand, but it's a blur,

how you began to feel like Gulliver.

Now as you start to rip the seams,

and wake up from all our dreams,

there's a string on a finger,

that says you must remember.

You move as if you're unattached,

with her, appearing better matched.

Though Gulliver returns to travel,

our memory will not unravel.

I sewed my rips and tears,

and the rest, only time repairs.

I keep in mind, though heart mangled,

That you will never be untangled.

The Final Flame

As sound as the sun,

You would arrive in my sky,

to bring up the flowers,

and to dry my eyes.

Soon sporadic as a storm,

on a humid summer's day,

You were there and gone,

drowning out what I'd say.

The winds took me away,

and when I returned,

You were only embers,

for the fire had burned.

Enough to extinguish the sun,

by the way that it blew,

but the eye of the storm,

is watching someone new.

Though our hearth is cold,

Love inscribed your name;

in a chamber of my heart,

burns one eternal flame.