callouses on my upper left palm
it's been forty-two  days without the gracious presence of your face protruding every now and again...
    the saddest little strand of hair seems to fickle in and out of its abilities to remain stable
in an unearthly breath
glitter-esque of a moon
illuminates the tender muddy waters of
the cloudy thimble of talent in which
i call an entirely
off subject honestly
i'm just really tired