Our love is an abandoned fair:
the lights all broken on the midway,
some glitter still hung in the air.
We strolled like kids. We weren’t aware.
We satisfied ourselves all day.
Our love is an abandoned fair,
though painted horses galloped there,
beneath—I cringe at the cliché—
some glitter, still hung the air,
those sparkles of our wear and tear,
silver distractions. What did I say
our love is? An abandoned fair,
an image of what mattered there—
gold, right? (See in a tossed bouquet,
some glitter still.) Hung in the air
like a promise? Nope. Nothing there.
Just sparkly garbage and decay.
Our love is an abandoned fair.
Some glitter still hung in the air.