Your broken-hearted-self brought me into the existential enigma of big-worded wonders that
Petite girls try to write in pen on the palms of their hands,
Letting the writing instrument dangle from their fingertips like the lost cigarettes
They smoke after their symphonies are heard and done.
I don’t know how you do it,
Make me want to cry and laugh and move forward through a life that
Hits cacophonies and harmonies and rhythms in random motion.
I got lost somewhere between I like you and I love you
And I always, always confuse it with
“None of the above” when you quiz me.