You and me.
We are those puzzle pieces, when you have about 15 left.
So completely wrong; different shades of green
One is round, the other end is pointed,
but you're convinced that they belong together.
So you twist the pieces, and jam them into each other.
You turn your head, and lick your lips;
you're determined.
If they could talk they might be crying,
or yelling, and they want nothing to do with the other one by this point.
Things may get quiet,
because then you sigh and laugh, that soft kind that tickles your vocal chords;
you suddenly spot another piece that has the same shade of green grass,
and you can see that the yellow from the previous piece was part of the sneaker
of the boy on the playground.
This new piece is sharp, just like the one in your hand.
So you put down the obviously incorrect piece,
and you slide the puzzle pieces into place.
Then there's you and me.
We're lonely, we're horny, we're both single-
so we go back to each other.
But it either ends with a disagreement, or a sexual glitch.
We're so wrong for each other,
but until we find more suitable puzzle pieces,
we won't know any better.
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