"they're not unicorns"

he sought perfection in a universe made of everything but, he pumped his affection like gasoline into pretty girls who looked like pretty pearls til they burst into flames right before his face at the strike of his love, like a match.

i talked with him for hours about a million things he wanted, all just out of his grasp. he called them unicorns, but they were just horses with sticks glued stuck to their foreheads.

and he was a fool.

but i had a thing for fools,

so perhaps so was i.

he painted such lovely views on the windshield with his finger, telling me just how it could be, how it should be; i lied just to see him smile and said it would be.

so he still chases unicorns in the fields of his mind, and cries and cries when they gut him wide awake with their horns; they're just sticks stuck on horse heads with no other intent than to leave him where he lays, broken and battered, stone cold and dead.