Thirteen Minutes to Midnight

When we spread our words to each other last night, I'm not quite sure you have may have felt the spark I have. A forbidden love, made almost out of a movie scene, played out in front of us like dancing fireflies, eloquent, but too shy to speak the seriousness of the subject. Acted lovers on a valentine's fever, too charming and childish to face the truth, but too serious to use any other words.

Maybe the pieces fall into place, and the acknowledgement of this young, impossible love will be revealed. Until then, we'll repose and hide away with these pieces of words in our souls, forevermore laying like the patch of grass being stroked by the wind. Carefully caressing the the nature outside, my desire raged on for an opportunity with you like that. I'm not one to move ahead, for I am too much of a clichéd, self-conscious type of lover, but I know that my way with words will smitten you eventually.

Maybe this is just the thrill of the chase, but the moment you'll have me in your hands, I'll form a piece of your regular schedule, and just how I came in; recklessly, unexpectedly, and rapidly; I will be gone. You may miss me then, and our hearts may realize that these games we're playing are more than a facade with the simple callings of "darling" and "love"

I always go to bed feeling like a poet, but could it be that perhaps last night I may have seen the sight of a poet with a matching, hidden angst, and a desire to spread love despite the tremendous scars that decorate it?

Dear you, I may start my engine, my broken heart, just to give it a chance again.