just a draft

What is there to write about besides love or the lack of, it seems every song that’s ever been sung is about one or the other, rhyming sob stories of the quest for a lover resonating through the airwaves so strongly that we feel them; these feelings make us go reeling til floor becomes ceiling and we melt til we’re kneeling; wait calmly for the healing to carry us away from the place that we don’t want to go. And so it goes til what’s left is A Lack of Love Poem echoing the words she won’t show him, cause now she doesn’t know him. But a poem’s just a draft unable to capture how they once laughed, a fainted outline where once was a painted skyline of a city only they knew of, where they roamed the streets and home was where their bodies could meet, and all fleeting moments were immortalized in smiling eyes that did not look at, but truly saw the splendor in the flaws, in the city that was all theirs. Where they could saunter about or shout and yell four letter words that start with L, cause they knew how to live, and their Love Poem was the city’s only law. The train to take them there only runs after midnight behind closed eyelids, but at least the ticket is free.