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.
