lost in the fog of a narrative
binary seasons orange leaves
scarred survived the cold and frozen

the sea got lost in the ocean of memories
and in the sound of winter
a part of apart

dust swirling on my hotel room
lifelike sinkboats taking notes
renovating us into a separation

are we all someone else now
seagulls in a bookforest
turning the foliage in silence

so alone
in our swanlove
and I will carry you, still.

sparkling blue color
decades that remain to
remember me as your
day of week or when

the blinds are following
you down by this night
over the western hemisphere

your hand in our
last day as innocent
before misplaced futures
with being inside  

do You ever feel fuming
on single trains
or near a seagull

I take place in large parts
contributing to the humors weather
finding reflections above
the unadorned feathered surface

thinking through not a glass;
today is a fine night
to cross a river.