I vacillate between
'love you' and 'love you not'
each time I hear your hand
turning my door knob;
perhaps my heart has an inkling
that your steps would turn away
the moment I'd run dry of words
slathered on my finger tips,
And for once my hand
wants to push yours away
just today, in this poem
with my awry metaphors,
and I wanna burn our time together
even before the fork comes out clean
from the things we'd been baking on and off
'cause I just can't seem to align
the right baking mode anymore;
So return to your good ol' void
and I want you to perish from my world
like the butterflies did from my stomach,
for Babe my love is now bipolar
with watermarked expiry date. -Misty Sierra
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