She is not satisfied with the end drop of his sentence
His hair connects to the sky
She could be beautiful, responding
He could have some texture,
Anything, really
Beyond the black and the white and the ever-so-clichéd
Grey.
For the words to have life to them
They have to speak in a sombre, essential silence
Her hair meshes with the ground, look,
The birth of another mistake.
They were children once
Before I reduced them to two characters
Here,
Right now
Their hopes and dreams and resplendent joy
I have erased
To string a graph of cause and effect
But that is the real mistake, is it not?
If there’s no truth
Then there’s no harm
A taste full of tears with a dollop of warmth.