i miss what i cannot have
Bone-weary stylus, embraced By her maroon stained metacarpus, Traces familiar trails- In attempt to recall His tender waves.
If I fled, I’d be found. If I bled, I’d be bound.
If I escaped, I’d be lost. If I cried, I’d be tossed.
I was born in a burning house.
A man with a face by Tintoretto told me that his feet were cold and that he wondered would I trade my shoes for his. Nord Americano, he said, pointing at my green-piped black Nike Jokers.