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this old spot
where dreams lay withered in silent protest
is where I pen my verses;
atop morning promises
and periwinkle hopes.

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I carve melodies
in marshmallow symphony;
that which melts when his kisses warm my face
and harden when her milky eyes wash over me.

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I am delusional
to the point where stipples
elongate into cacophonous ellipses;
dragging metaphors
into long suicidal signora

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and that of tingling stars
tattoo hazy graffiti on my ribcage;
to outline the seriousness
of my hopelessness
in one single monologue.

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and of which my hands go numb,
writing more than intended
and tracing less needed-
sonnets...
into ungodly hours of the night;
where my wayward hair
hung from the chandelier
like a confetti chain around my neck
like a chock clause;

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