Wine has a color like my thoughts
Dark and wet
Because my mind is a dark room, with dew on the walls
And mold in the corners
It’s so empty I hear my dreams echo from when I was sleeping
Eleven hours ago
And honey has the consistency of my thoughts
Slow and thick
And sticky
Not letting go of the past
And collecting everything as it blows by
Just to get heavier and
Have me grow more sorrowful
My honey-thoughts and mind of dark places are unlikable
And I much prefer my old, fan-thoughts
That would blow the negative things away and cool me down
And my old mind of a castle so broad and beautiful with framed pictures on the wall
And marble stairs
Clean (never collecting dust), and organized
Where did it go?
Why did it leave?