Sometimes, I write poems

and wrestle words into bouquets:

amateurish sprigs of promises,

representing far too much hope—

Plucking the petals

to lovingly rearrange them:

C’est la nouveau chanson,

warbled in perfect polyphony.

Where our measures match up, I figured

we could compare notes,

even if it means pulling an all-nighter

in the name of harmonic progressions—

But, at last, I’ve embraced

dissonance too, and timing

just isn’t important to me anymore.