There are lyrics
unwritten
on the spine
of my courage, prickled
and unwavering and horribly
cliché.
What if I want
to sing
about porcupines
or paper hats?
What
if the sound of ice
in a glass
stirs more romance
in my gut
than a well-
executed kiss?
What if there’s nothing
original
to say
with my mouth
open?
God, I fucking love everyone who came out tonight.
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