4/29/19

It takes four years to get over the swells of her majestics.
Pure lore in spite of the mess that trails me.
And now I am strapped to this chair writing of romanticism.
For fingertips that may never touch and the shame of holding in heavy lungs of loneliness.
Yet the nights are not as dark as you may imagine.
Jet black? Yes.
But crystallized under a ceiling of a cavern that stretches for miles.
I lazily sleep in cold pools.
Watching the water overflow into the far beyond.
Dreaming only of who I must belong to.
Who must I belong to?
Who must I be?