Poem: Line Breaks

[sherlockian_syn]

Sitting on the porch
of a house that is not ours,
I begin to babble like a brook
about chapters in a book
and how I wish life fit
into broken sections,
tidy and neat.

Your guitar made of
midnight rests in your hands,
aimless chords chromatic
in scale. We are the same
person in two bodies,
so I wait, knowing you
will find something to say.

Life can't be divided,
arranged, you whisper.
Life is a poem, a seed growing
in your soul.
And so much can happen
between this line break

and the next.