Tinge stone petal

Alone is the despair in which my synergy resides. I await nothing in the rose tinged sightings of UFOs that flicker on and off and on again in my bedroom, gelling my sleep into cycles of waves, where nothing stays for too long. The longings are longest when the reasons are mum. The mums in the front veranda sit solely for the purpose of my name, whose lips where once called rose petal by her. She sits on the stair drops that river my soul into soundless streams of aging tales. You smile when I ask you to tell it again. I am so insightful in your stare, where prolific voyages of meaning manifest into syntax I did not know I was producing, and in many ways am still unsure. Where the unbounding bodies of quarrel forsake notions to drink from the same river, to surf the same skin, in a heated torture of arousal, where the feelings are never new, but always forgotten. It seems futile to be hurrying to empty this doomed vessel of tears as it rains, but you swear you can tell the difference, and so for your sake I play along.

So if not by morning, I will vow to master the times.

By the grave, I will mourn  my former, and find reverence in my grandfathers name, in both my stony eyes.

where I could bring blossom back to concrete,

and wrinkle your nose again.