is my kind of world.

Hardly matters if a surprise downpour decides
to grace my walk home. I’ll face the sky’s burden
with wet clothes clinging to small frame. If I run
out of words to write, books to read, candles to
ignite and sit by, if I wake up one day and cannot
locate the face of a girl once young and incinerating
with the promise of potential, if I burn the batch
of whatever bakes in the back corner kitchen
of my mind, if all the mighty doors of opportunity
I try to knock down come ricocheting back in my face,
if I arrive home bruised and battered from having
misplaced my heart, if some days feel more like
the freak accidents of existence and less like
the first days of warmth after a frozen season,

a world with you in it is still
my kind of world.

I’ll weather any storm to meet you there,
right there, at the collapse of it all.

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