your mouth speaks like fountains,
gray and cold and hardened by
the cement in your earlobes,
like when latitudes cannot seem
to find longitudes and
how nothing goes your way.
but i can't seem to place
your complaints, like the satellites
can search for landmarks,
how the light searches for the dark,
i guess you have worries
******* into a bouquets colored in
unfortunate crime series,
similar to nancy drew.
i always knew i read those books with
patience for a reason.
negative comforts you with
its energies and wide open
grace,
having its own race that will
love you and love you all over again
because you are uncertain anyone
else will but
i can't give you a stable ground to
walk on or an idealist world
you know you cannot have.
everyone else has learned to live,
working with the works and hands
they've been dealt.
you just constantly ask for it,
you aren't a king,
hardly a man.

things like this always take time.