I give the kiss of death
to a fuming roll of paper,
puffing out the siphoned life,
shaping gossamers of ourselves
in the air. But the wind,
it messes us up.
The only artist it knows is itself.
It's magnum opus is the perpetual
molding of cumuli of ephemeral and temporal.

Once more, I **** a breath of solace,
and release a hint of relief.
I cast my oneiric world:
soundless, so my fears and worries will remain unspoken;
shadowless, so my courage and love won't remain hidden.
We take form once more,
but again displaced.

But the smoke will not roam across space.
It will drift to me, to choke these reveries,
and banish them through violent coughs.





Our togetherness is nothing more
than an ethereal form.
The wind, after all,
gives the kiss of death.