Morning words that taste so sweet;
But your anticipation hides a hiss that won’t leave
And my attention will dwindle, too, like last night's sky's suicide
For this morning’s indifferent wanness.
Yesterday’s problems precipitate on the porcelain sink,
and I think,
while it pours outside:
What you’re doing is eating at the pillars, perhaps your intent
Might very well be testing me like the Ocean tests a new continent;
Your questions propel with good intention, but miss
And I drift between my own strange questions
Looking for solid ground in marshes of dissonant longevity.
I watch you in your corner of our motel room as it stretches away from me;
Your fractal world crumbles into embers like the end of your "bad habit”
That’s now mine too, and ever since I’ve been washing the red out of my T-shirt
I’ve been blue.