Tears, shards of glass escape from my eyes.
The lump in my throat, a butcher's blade.
Pain I feel
because of the love forbade.
sticking to your shoes...
feet, nearly always, come in two's.
In the still of the night
when I have taken flight and cannot sleep,
Cupid drew back his bow, taut-
aimed and fired.
Shot you straight at my heart.
You landed, bolt out of the blue.
Out the back gate, left open mindlessly by daydreaming children,
She sneaks happily, belly low to the floor.
Backward looking over the shoulder, half expecting to be caught
Down the alley and past the butcher’s