the wintry chill of the morning-
it washes over our prone bodies...

the cool, abyssal embrace, liquid and always...
trails behind you only an inch away...

you were too big for me to warm you,
so you had to let me go...

the living room is silent
except for cicadas...

it exists outside the bonds that entrap them,
and wanders for a place outside eternity...

got a hundred things
to do, but none you want to...

tears come out of the lacrimal glands,
from above the upper eyelids...

dim room, peeling wall,
only my bed and my thoughts...

i walk alone
in a concrete forest...

distant noise registers as loudly
as my own thoughts- water running...

sing with me, sweet wind, and put my
worried thoughts to rest...