Weird Wednesday Love Poem

The World’s Worst Fugitive

I do not have a shovel.

The warden here is 

as wily

as she is wicked.

I do not even have a spoon,

because we never eat soup.

I suspect we never eat soup

because

it would require spoons.

I dig with a fork.

As you can imagine,

it takes some time

to dig a tunnel

with a fork.

Five years,

to be precise.

I dig with a fork

for five years.

Four tiny tines

to freedom.

A tunnel

under my bed,

under the fence.

The stars beyond the prison wall

are brighter.

The air is fragrant

as it kisses my cheek.

But, no.

Oh, no.

Those are lips

against my cheek.

I know those lips

against my cheek.

Those weren’t stars,

but the searchlight,

reflecting in her eyes.

That wasn’t a breeze

but her breath,

her whisper

her words.

“Don’t leave me.”

So I don’t.