There are mirrors all over this place
and each wall is hologram-ed with my reflection. I am pink and blue with the
pale ideas of hues and pleasantries.
I am not abstract but my lungs don’t quake
with the facts of air and the thrusts of life-
I am reality. Independently so, I am reality
perched on the back of a featherless bird and the flight takes wind of my throat and sets me on fire.

I’ve not had a powerful love that moons me hollow or jades me pale like the blistered stars that hangs on too long to something too dark, I’m not depressed but indefinitely so, I do not feel too happy or too sad or too anything. I am a stranger.

My emotions are not too stark or too raw, they linger. A little longer than yesterday’s Jack and I burn just a little darker than
this morning’s sun. I am awake only for this moment and the moment after that, my eyes will close and I will drift sallow into a putrid shade of hollandaise yellow.