on
a secret bed we
lay
disclosed. we need not
to
be in a constant. permanent
eyes
are illusions. the soul
is
never the same . the soul
is
never the same. the soul
is
never the same as i first
wrote
that. we should wash away
the
pronunciations so that we
can
live in mute hearts. i want
to remember my life as
a chameleon living on
her
paris stoned hair. emotional
cafes
and abused open literature;
but i forgot.
in
the meantime we are washed
shores
by sand castles built
by a wooden architect;
we
can dance this dance forever
just
as long as i get to hold your floor
with
my toes.
