Small, interrupted
laughter,
elusive, knotted
currents in the
breast,
cold, ill-timed
rain.
"I have missed you," she
replies,
damn this cruel, paradoxical
nature,
hope springs
eternal,
but only if the human
breast is willing,
at present, sadly, there is too much
comfort in being rejected
(though self imposed),
what makes a somber, hopeless
spirit feel so right?
What disorder!
And it's quickly over, she's
gone—torment, empty space
and limitless time.
Small, tortuous
chatter around me,
elusive, knotted
currents in the
breast.
Not this time
wretched soul,
I think I saw flowers
down the road.
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