if life were a book, I would only publish mine as a full-blown manuscript
after it had been read and read and read until the cursor blinked red
a red-flection of my bloodshot perfectionist disguise
as I attempt to meticulously mould my history’s future sans surprise.
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my partner would “publish” his as half-written drafts drifting through time
a flurry of notes carried by a forgiving breeze of self-belief
a Pollocksian smattering of scattered brilliance
as he invites a criticism a witticism a mysticism through the act of existence.
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if life were a symphony, we would worship at the altar of accidental lyricism
we would pick notes as if they were wildflowers, awaiting our caress
we would bathe in the diminuendo of the phrase
before cascading through the crescendo that brings meaning to our days.
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