You're a label maker, aren't you? A neat little filer and folder. You smudge and you clean until the world around you is pristine. I've known that about your for a long time. I've known but I haven't cared.
What would a room look like with you i(more)n it? Muddy and murky? Or would it be some spotless dream, an endless sea of shining plates and glowing floors. I'll take my chances with the mess, at least that's interesting.
There is so much judgement when she writes. She sees commas and apostrophes all askew. She sees words aligned in sections and segments. Poetry is a puzzle, one to be figured out and ordered properly. Art is not art, it is a wrong to be righted.
How tired I grow, with words upon words, detailing your precise little ways. You are a label maker and your words are all aligned in row with dotted i's and criss-crossed t's.
I've loved you dearly and I'm missed the mark. I'm too messy some days to be around someone so devoutly clean.
So clean me up if you will and maybe, just maybe we'll make it to church at noon. A sigh for sore eyes, you and I, the cleanest mess you've ever seen. (less)