You are a descending line
on the blueprint of my love life,
falling deeper and deeper
into another over-played rendition of
"Honey, I killed the romance."

But is it dead yet? Is it resting?
Is it comatosed and stirring
motionlessly waiting for a new, red
sweet heart tart that reads "b mine"
to bring it back to life
via sugar high?

But the higher it goes, the lower it falls
no matter how high you build those
ever verticle walls, they can't catch the sun
falling into the arms of the moon.

And the moon couldn't care less,
he's happy with his own stars.

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