platonic ideals never fall out of the sky.
they have to be worked on, worried over in
insomniactic sides of the bed.
have to be perfected in wistful, vulnerable solitude of
fast food restaurants.
confessions don’t usually originate in sin,
but in the dreams of those who drool on pillows,and
make love with eyes shut tight.
reconciliation doesn’t run in on the heels of a prayer.
it is a rare, timid houseguest who insists on doing the dishes,
a warmth she thinks about on her coldest day.
just do yourselves a favor why don’t you?