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Rules for romantics.
From bus stop revelations,
romantic connotations,
from cards and barbie dolls and bikes and canon’s.
To dialing up my crush,
the fast five hour rush,
worth every yawn till dawn gives us to sleep.
Only then to dream,
of spooning and of wives,
of honey covered lives and carnivals.
Too many counted sleeps,
and tightening of strings,
the mystery still sings to bleeding hearts.
And so we drink the bliss,
with wine or flavoured water,
I really think I ought to swallow hope.
Or else the glinted grace,
of my dear stalker’s face,
might make a willing walker out of me.
