on a shaky monday morning
in the waking hour,
feeling like a barely blooming flower.
I do not mean to rhyme.
I know you appear, vivid,
and I am the soft song
that starts off strong,
but ends with a weird solo.
dirty yet golden,
remembered yet forgotten,
we can try with all our might,
until we feel the time is right.
everybody hates when rhymes
reverse life like truth and cars,
driving around with pickles in the back seat,
and then we meet in sunset smell.
don't take me out of this,
and I won't take us out of pages,
because life is silly and slippery
when wet banana peels litter the sidewalk.