The expectation
fed for years on a
steady milking of a
thousand words
budded on swooning
starry auras meshing
to form a net to catch the universe
and time to melt it all down
to a perfect sentence in a floral pink diary
when what it did burn down to
in that moment
was nicotine-laced,
sour and insistent
awkward and
disconnected.
And just a bit sad.