Who knows this next step.
The journey is not one planned
Even if it is over-thought.

The grasp of the rose’s thorns are great
But I’d rather a plant
That could feel the rain.
And I would not choose to watch
All that beauty rot.

Is there a mistake in my spelling
Or has your meaning already left
With your too big shoes
And no promise
Of another night?

Overcompensating
I may be
But the mirror
Tells many lies of me

And I’m not one to be caught
With something resembling a heart
No matter how highly valued that organ is.