Sunday, October 9, 2011

The goodnights.

Sometimes it is similar to a balloon--
Each tensile point of its tent is sponsored
By the wild air.

This is also true about the night. Lovers fill them
With wishful "goodnights"; so much goes into each.
Finally one day we'll be forced to rename it;

The stormy "I love you" place will need
Us to call it something.

But what?

Your breath bricks up and floods the floor; the architecture
Falls on me. My breath is lost.

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