My head is in the toilet again,
as I cling to the tiling
to satisfy my place. All the time
growing smaller,
growing tired of this face.

It reflects in the ****-water like moonlight,
like a stranger huffing solvents
in the street. All the while I think
of your location;
in both life and the placing of your feet.

I have tumbled through darkness for years now,
so far that I have entered
forever-night. Oh, I miss your
voice on the telephone,
and more so in the absence of light.

I'm having trouble with my head again,
as I wilt like the orchids
on your table. I fear that soon
I will slip away,
that soon,
I will be but a passing fable.