I am not here: I am exhausted,

I become a clothing heap on your floor
the silent mountain of snow & dust,
you can pick me up,
but surely, I will glide back down.

I am not here when I need sleep,
rather an exact, watercolor painting
that does not match my soul.
Too sharp, or too fuzzy –

my eyes are oceans glazed by iceforms,
I have not the courage to see.

I am not here: I am exhausted,

I am intoxicated by your memories,
handsome bubble and the falling under
you are the tightrope I am walking,
want to love, but cannot breathe.

Morning keeps me guessing,
and feelings are  
                                        sliding.