I woke from revolving door dreams
Faces mixed by the illusion bartender
And stitched together by an Amish quilt master
The attention to detail, the intentional flaw
Her needle poked holes through my comfort and weaved me closer to the bodies of old lovers
I weigh out my guilt on a scale with the ashes of yet another "last cigarette"
And contemplate the linear fashion of myself
Then and here, here and now
Now there is a body upstairs,
Heated and dreaming between sheets
It is neither mine nor yours
But love has no figure, it simply just is.