pastry
skies and chandelier
vines;
silver history became
meaningful
with pregnant verbal
abuse.
i am tortured by your
curly
smile and your tree tea
eyes.
we are burnt skin avoiding
a
proper iambic pentameter.
i
am dead to your underground
and
on bended knee i am every
unfinished.
the very same place
where
autumn cries begun to seep us
in
their sleeping beauty;
every
morning you arrive
and
i disappear.
