I’m
in between, searching somewhere high, and stationed
at
a five. Everything is beige, to ponder a myriad of souls;
and
what for dialogue, an empty vase, and current affairs.
Maybe
the Donovan’s; and maybe Master’s of Sex; and
maybe,
a bout of eczema. There’s a temblor, to rustle
feathers,
to print a soul; and I love her not, aware of love,
a
touch of pash. We’re quilted, a pleated façade, to vet
sincerity.
I fought to get here; this very space; scratching
and
itching. Could you; without for touch; to paint a future?
I
see it often, the deepest needs, fancied for a moment.
You’re
a sculptress, to pencil an opus, filled with ghosts. I
felt
for splendor, afire sorely, to kindle firebrand. We could
of
kissed, to treasure pathos, a ball of fire. I imagine tales,
and
methods forged, and lies for rent. It couldn’t be, and yet
it
was. I laugh to feel it; a somber laugh, coated in vagueness.
We
polish tears, structured for canvases. I’m warm a light,
to
rustle a bookshelf, searching for a diva. Curtains are
steaming,
an ottoman is soaked, and dreams are but coaches.
I awake, stuck to an
armchair, blaring a requiem.
