Holiday

You are my Billie,

Pushing rhythms from my soul.

You are my Indiana,

Letting me fight in your scuffles.

You are my Neruda,

Cooing metaphors for me into being.

You are my Butch Cassidy,

And I would follow you anywhere.

You are my Frida,

Wretching my errs onto canvas, on display.

But you are my genie,

Enslaved by my whims.

You are my Rick,

Giving me one last chance.

You are my Ilsa,

The one I chose to let go.

You are my Billie,

Pushing rhythms from my soul.

CLR

don't worry

And then we ran,

Ran like snow drifts,

Tumbling and stumbling

Laughing at the moon!

Wait! that’s not how the story goes.

It looks like this:

You smile forgivingly and leave.
I say nothing

And leave, too.

Leave with no choice

But to come back tomorrow

And smile at you again.

It’s not like smoke, or a dream, or a metaphor.

It’s just that sometimes…sometimes,

I want to say I love you.

But I won’t do that to you.

Don’t worry.