Exquisite Disaster

by Shædow Poet

Illuminated patterns of perfection
become evanescent,
in time.

(Your bracelet sits so perfectly on
my own wrist, which has no scars.)

This is because I'm realizing
that a box of crayons cannot stay sharp,
they cannot stay unused,
for unused, is unloved.
and unloved is despondent.

Love is this, it was never meant to be
a box of crayons just bought
it was suppose to be messy,
used, wasted
imperfect, maybe.

(Your lips upon my cheek
I blush a darker shade than my lips.)

To me, this is a story book
yet one I could find in a black market
why? Because its plot
is never too happy, never too sure
love was meant to be
this way, but it is
rejected, so precious-
the hated is always honest.

(My hand on your stomach
a beautiful disaster- the steal of the bracelet
shudders your skin.)

When the black crayon runs out
or the story book becomes too blurry
and too old to read
this is when the anticlimax
is perfect,
at 5 pages or 60, it's always what we call
wonderful.

(In the mirror, I cringe,
but in your eyes, you smile.)