I don't know the word
for this restless almost breathless
feeling  in my chest -

the opposite of a bluebird
- a ******* crow, at best

a last call cawing
or is it a raven's kraa-kraa

this feeling -
like a shadow in clothes
- a fly in the eye of those

who pray for repose
of my soul.

Those beautiful eyes were lost in that book
with a perfect smile, and the most beautiful look.

reading a book isn't about
reading good words carefully chosen
to create a magic display
of perfect scenes,
it's about feeling every moment and movement
that happens between covers
like that would happen in your present reality
and you're there,
ubiquitous,
deciding whether or not the action should continue.

The truth went away
And what you are left with now?
Perpetual lie