You're a winged beetle and I am a lightening roach during our paranormal hour.
Why am I struggling the weight of a vagabond on my slack-spine back with slack strings that bring silly string dreams to my brain starring an amateur fawn.
Why are you attracting your mate this late in the morning?
I think I'm late to my own mourning ceremony.
How phony of me to accept this bait that that I've dangled so familiarly.
Silly me with my silly string lullabies like sighs of goodbye pranks.
Thanks for making me your mate, or am I prey?
I've been growing a frigid light inside me.
I've watered it and watched it grow into a person.
This frigid light suggested a tundra flight in an instant shock,
juxtaposing the dismal night like an instant dusty fish on our musty hidden floor.
I'm just an instant dusty chore,
a crusty crustacean washed up on the faded shore.
I'm just a maudlin faded bore that's always needing more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more.
I wish I wasn't an instant fish, beautiful and shocking,
unlocking a rainbow that's inducing emotions that I'm chemically reducing slowing to nothing,
producing lightening from my murky roach of a lower firefly belly,
that's been on display a lot lately,
greatly failing to focus your unfocused attention.
I'd like to mention how the lines of your words and the lines of your body and the lines of your face have become blurred to me.
Tomorrow they will be crisp and clear, though.
I know they will be and my head will be sleeping in an endless foggy dream.