Symphonic

I want
With the stroke of my pen, to strike you down
With the blink of my eyes, to unsee you

More importantly

I need
With the tools I surely possess, to repair my own heart
With the uncommon grace that is my sinew, to forgive you

Repair

You’re not the tea type, to me. Ancient you aren’t.

You think you are. But I think you’re raspberry hot chocolate.

Take this endless cup. With my reckless invitation.

Delve. Repair into the wild, earthen past and the rich insanity ahead.

We, hot chocolates in hand, casting our cares. Setting a spell.