Trying to clean us up feels like sorting trash the morning after in a dress and six inch heels.
Loosely holding hearts, we two stumbled to a slippery place, your ruffled shirt tattered, my formal in shreds.
We used worn-out rags, our only remnants, to dust without moving the knickknacks, left sparkling splotches on our future.
Like forgotten buttered toast, we cooled, while quicksilver time skittered away, leaving mere memory of the shiny mess we made.
It didn’t feel like a mess while we were making it.
EDITOR’S NOTE: This poem was selected from entries submitted to our Creative Challenge Series #5: Word Salad, which required that the words bolded in the text must be included. Read other Creative Challenge winners. To find out how to participate, go to Creative Challenges.