disconnected (draft)

j-w-waterhouse

my type, feather

light in quiet

breath, drifts

on a whim of fancy.

nothing

              but a song

half formed on a fingertip

dream in a mad breeze

              promise.

sent, like a road sighing

somewhere

             beautiful and real.




lying low, daylight hangs

between us

there is nothing but nice

chit-chat and the memos

that remember everything




                              but this.

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