This poem has nothing to do with Valentine's Day

 
Tonight we'll be at rest,
decked in purple
and the hyms of protest.
That loudest wish
is severely planned, at best,
but yelled upon a whim.

Our shoulders ache
with the pressures of things
not yet carried, thank god.
And so, in our thankfulness,
we'll pray to hasten their return.

The ticket is bought,
but the train will never come.
That little slice of paper
feels so at home in the folds
of our wallets, doesn't it?

I lied.
_________________________________________________

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Bon Iver, Hinnom, TX