when he spoke

he made sidewalk cracks and burnt out matches

sound poetic

i fell in love with a small apartment that has a wrinkled grey blanket on the floor

and endless tea stains on the wood floor

(poetry never has to be pristine; my words have a lived-in feel.)

she was wildflower poetry

who spoke in vanilla scented words

and i found myself wanting just to have the beginning letter of my name

on one of her creamy book pages

(she packed up all my words in her vintage suitcase and went off to write another book)