Star-Crossed Summer

Free Verse ReVolution

It’s not even
March and I’m
dreaming of June;

escaping January’s ruin

(typhoon of
frozen rain with
more raze than I
ever saw in fire)

has made me weary of
watching thermometers plunge,
listening to
the coughing,
distant hum of
a furnace during its
daily skirmish

with silence.

I’m a furniture
pilot wrapped up in
romanticizing
the science
of letting go.

Four weeks left until spring and I’m living like it’s summer, when star-crossed lovers can deny the impending divide, for a time; a separation implies a crack in our fragile bubble. Couple blinks of the eye, it sinks to such levels, it dies, and the air in its captivity disperses.

The only two
things I’m certain of
in this
autumn of anarchy are I
still love my angel,

no matter how
painful her accompanying
devils are;

and my
pencil still has
a measure of bite
left in
its bark.

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