It does me no good
to muse over frown lines,
or whether or not yoga
is all that instrumental
in a posture that's already upright;
when I could ponder the color blue
at its darkest shade, just before midnight
when love, too, has fallen asleep
it is then, that you become
erratic;
a wild emotion
that needs to express itself,
more often than not
Somewhere between thought
and punctuation,
I use to write of our love
as though it were pretty, like curtains
waving their lacy goodbyes
with still hands,
but the air
always kept its composure,
in spite of my thunder-
you were always too cool
to flutter,
and I'm caught in a gust
of nothingness,
yet it feels so alive
