Honey, I'm gonna make it out alive.

[misfitsvixen]

please read aloud:

i'd call it a serenade but words never seem to find
the amplitude or the proper destination like postage
signed sealed stamped and stranded on a sunday morning.
the floor still squeaks in hallways of midnight lovers
despite the absence of love - and the love of absence
that fit so comfortably to skinny thighs telling
stories in subtle minuets. we both seem to have our
monologues, conversations to the wall that end

abruptly

severed from sharp tongues that prove to make lacerations
to cut the conversations outside of the dotted lines.

pen your words to a pad of paper, my darling
calligraphy is an art in itself.