As The Poet Said "Much Ado About Nothing"

Oh that you were a romantic. Then I could whisper my love to you across the wires. I could love you from afar. I would let this well spring of silly words over flow your cup in the way they fill my mind. I would love you in mass and earnestly.

But you are sadly practical in your love. You hold it lightly like an injured bird, worried force might crush it. Yet confidently knowing it will never fly away. Or if it does know that it was meant to be, that the poor dove now knew the thrill of flight.

Oh if only I were that practical. I could set my love aside. I could let you fly away with out these tears in my eyes.

Home

Dear Home,

Together we worked to make you. You told me where to put the boards and what color to paint the walls. We made you perfect, a perfect place for you and I. You being all that you could, standing strong and beautiful. I, wanting a place to hold and to hope for, made someplace to call my own. I could run to you and you would hold me deep inside. Your creaking floor boards making me smile and your fire place warming my face. "But homes don't last forever," your window shutters whispered. I nodded my head like a child. Sure that I understood. But now home, you are leaving me. You are picking up your foundation, packing up your picked fence and latching all your shutters. You are off to be remodeled in a new and more modern style. And as you sadly say goodbye, I am left to build again.

With no buyers remorse,
Homeless