He said, “I bet if
I ate fireflies,
I'd light up something
wonderful and special
and then I'd be the perfect
man you'd always want.”

She grimaced, said to
stop reading Alice in
Wonderland, to stop
being such a dreamer,
stop talking in abstract
ideas and nonsensical prose.
It's. Not. Healthy.

---

He hand wrote a little
chapbook for her, poems
and thoughts, his deepest.
Pricked his finger,watching in
fascination as the sanguine
liquid dripped, splatter small
in the corner of the cover page.

She would always have a piece
of his heart near-by.

He found it abused and dogeared
through use of neglect in corners
of forgotten grooves in bookcases.

“Your poetry is tired and abusive
to the English language,
name dropping doesn't make you
any weightier and let the piece
breathe just once, for goodness sakes.
Stop using so many friggin commas.
Periods can be your friend too,”
she said. He propped his head up
on his bent arm, cheek mussing out of
shape. “Really now?” he said. “Why
don't you tell me how you really feel?”

---

She turned to him and said,
“We never do anything fun anymore.”
He said, “We just did it last
night,” but she gave the screwball
look and repeated that line again.

She said, “I'm tired of wiping my
tears with this old handkerchief
you gave me on our third anniversary.”
He said, “I'm tired of playing this violin
I brought for myself on our first.”

The resolution was to continue
that continual agreement of disagreements
when their eyes opened to the rays
of the sun and the ridge in between
eyebrows that develops every time
they frown; The word Completion
never was learnt by the disaster kids
and they drifted off to solitary dreams
pondering how it lasted so long at all.