Words. Mispilled.

Modifiers dangling at the

wrong places, having stared too long

into your turquoise eyes

The sparkles in them fall

into my run-on sentences of deliberation

like punctuations; little commas

with an attitude that divides my manhood

and stubborn periods

that keep everything

I say and do  in line.

.

You don’t need to control my words

You’re on my mind, in my heart,

down to the bottom of my soul,

across from my sight like a phantom,

all about me and all the way through me

.

This is what you do best

These subtle distortions

of a man’s prepositions

.

This is what you do best

The forceful reduction

Of  a man’s expression

to mere adjectives for your existence

.

And you, being always plural,

will never agree to be the subject of my romance

for I, being perpetually single due to my

pathetic inability to talk to beautiful girls,

I am the lame verb in the wrong tense

with taped retro glasses and jeans that are

so last-century-ago, without the sizzle

.

That is why in English,

a sentence’s subject is never changed

for the sake of the verb

for it is definite, written in stone,

while the verb, so meagre and hopelessly in love

suspends his life with the decisions you make.