Our oceans have become puddles,

stomped through by your sensible shoes,

leapt over, like a lovesick ballerina,

who longs to land in God’s good graces,

but has been bound to hell by her wicked, wayward heart.

The room that watches us is small.

The eyes are ever watching,

without judgement,

without guidance,

so I am finding my way to tomorrow by tracing the gentle roads that are entrenched in your palms.

I’ll read each line,

and all your tea leaves,

tease a promise from your sighing lips,

pleading for the world to wither away,

until it’s just you and I.