Crumbling sheets and misplaced feathers that lie
Delicately on the transparent skin
Of two lovers whom are nestled within
A makeshift home. As fleeting as a sigh
Of resigned hope. A limited supply
Scorns at the times that would’ve, could’ve been.

Yet one of transience is not without weight,
And hope need not be crushed down to the floor.
A temporal sweetness does still satiate
The dullness of a tongue that has once more
Tasted the touch of love’s open gate,
So clear the anguish is worth striving for.




Wrapping myself in petals of familiarity,
Every morning they bloom into 
Grotesque images of people, places, objects,
Leafy sepals of sameness.

Empty empty vacuous flower bud.

Senseless clambering for water, 
For a moving constant, a flowing necessitation.
Nourish me with the lick of your honeyed tenderness.

Sick of monotony,
But wanting what once was.
C’est La Vie
Dizzying homesickness, 
Lacking in you.