Your kiss is a nasturtium,
not a rose.
Your voice is mulch,
not loam.
You romance me in our house
of straw;
your arms are Tinker Toys.
We no longer drag out
the Erector set with its missing pieces;
your patience has broken
down and the glue
that puts everything back
together doesn’t stick.
Our child has stories in her hair;
you put them there.
It is your turn
to make her believe.
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