one part scissors

three strikes

“rock paper scissors,
bludgeon, cover & cut;

if and or but
chop, crush & slice;

as in three blind mice.”
if i could, i would cradle you in my arms and rock you
until the distance between our souls becomes paper thin
as we commence to become as scissors, one part in consort
with the other, not needing to bludgeon our way through life under cover of starkness accompanying our loneliness which cut us bone-deep, before…

if i could, i would return to the moment when we first met and there and then declare my intention to devote myself to you,
but without the mistakenly obsessive need to question and equate your every response with my own intensity…

now, i want nothing more than to cut the crap and to stop, drop and chop to shreds any semblance of the insecurity with which i was driven when i failed to crush my obnoxious responses to perceived slights in my interpretation of your intentions gleaned from a mere slice of your life, failing to put into perspective all that you were, are and could be to me…

now, there is nothing that i wouldn’t do to regain your trust and respect, so i ask you to grant me three strikes before you cast me out of your life; cold and blind to the possibility of our ever being together and happy again, as well-kept mice in the elaborate maze through which we live and move in the grand hypothesis of this cosmic science experiment called our human lives.