of what?
of small meaningful noises
given like Christmas gifts that you can't open in front of your parents
creation of murmuring hearts
skipping odd beats,
of reasons to speak the words you hold gently between your fingertips
like the last dripping slice of a clementine (don't let the juice get on the floor)
(don't make a mess)

sometimes I'm sick of my own imagination,
lately it fails me.
no fanciful futures,
only feet stuck in the mud
and I'm too lazy to just untie my shoes and walk away

the riff is deepening
darkening
(that's not bad - it's expansive)
I'll just keep expanding until I explode
and then I'll start again
and again
until someday
i just stop.