Hearkening whispers that remind me of footsteps;
awaiting them to be yours---
I'm ashamed, defeated on all fours.
I'm crestfallen because I'm certain
     that I am devastatingly unsound---
            nose stuck to the ground.

I have a mood indigo so abiding it's embarrassing.
My heart is colliding and subsiding to this pain.
I hear one tick and imagine that it's the lights;
      a plight to know this night hasn't died---
           but it never is one.
I'm pretending its all a burlesque
      but repressing the truth that it never is that picturesque.

It's never a picture show.

I dream unsoundly,
and now my world is despondent and unsoundly.
Here I stand, invisible and indigo.
I've been indigo since "my baby said goodbye."
I'd call myself Ivonne
     but nobody would even care to know.