We've paved our relationship with molten brick;
then tied our fingers against thunderstruck trees
while prudent street dogs spat selfish lyrics
and served lightly-salted soliloquies.
I cried starshine into your emerald arms,
so you could become the meaningful whisper I'll never hear.
I fell for faithless, plastic charms
in rooms that smelled like smoke, white oak and beer.
Our hearts became rocket ships tied to ribbons,
one crawling on an overstuffed belly; always too far behind
like the sons and daughters of Elias Fitzgibbons
who said we would wed us on Tuesday, that holy bind.
Wicked felt-tipped pens, forging "I love yous."
were like deadswept petals of blueish hues.