spy work in the graveyard

rum and coke

and dizzy declarations

of fleeting feelings and

frivolous desires

while dancing with

your shadow.

mirrored silhouette

tempting my finger

tips and taunting

their journey

down your spine.

oh, what an

expedition.

sporadic thoughts for worn and weary

sharp tongue
wobbly legs
split ends
callused hands
nervous kisses

counter top ring from coffee mugs left sitting too long. cold and stale, these tales have been shared throughout the ages and evolve only in face and name. it always ends the same, crawling to bed and a mental portrait of better days ahead. those coins you tossed will never meet the fountain. always dreamed in color but forgot to stop and smell the dew.

now to make up for lost time.

golden locks of flirt and fury.

the season's style is simple and stale; torn comic books cover a carpet that wouldn't catch your eye anyway. you breathe softly, you ask me questions of where i'm from and how i feel and i wonder why you speak in tongue. you're the shakespeare of these barren tree trunks, and i am passerby who could count all the other places i'd rather be headed.