Midnight claustrophobia dreams,
                           where the charcoal
suffocation presses on my chest.

My expiration has no date of
                elapsing.

But the animation of my expiration
            still lingers,
and I hold on to that moment.

You are my collection of recollection,
            and in the onyx covering
  that the luminosity clings too,


we suffocate on every


                  exhalation of the other.

Pineapple topped beach palms are tall in the clouds,
Echoes of bells tones trail in the sky so dark blue.
The sun is liquid honey, with a golden candy coating,
It is now that I look up and see my red balloon.

A song of harmonic laughter is full in the air,
Up it floats into adventurous magical territories,
Mythic beasts and sprites follow on clouds and stare,
Ticker-tape string trailing, windy chimed melodies.

The chalk of clouds are pillows filling the sky,
Darker and suspended in mid-animation, dimming.
The balloon floats still-ever higher in the light,
Lighter than ever, above the earth still spinning...

Cuddly
Soft
Sensitive
Touch
Move

Freeing
Giving each other life
Closer and closer
Python in brains
Already there

Beautiful
Light blue
Animation with AI
Stark love
passion

Driving
Counter-thievery
Reading fast
Choosing how human you are
Faux-morality dying

This bedroom got boring
I hold in my breath til I’m pressured
just short of pain
and result :
The wall at the far end pushes back into the darkness
the bed raises on longer limbs
Now there is more territory
Inviting in a new metabolism
some organic animation

I find myself

in improvised dances
to songs that scratch at the shadows
of songs before them

I find myself

in blue light that flickers
wavers by the bedside
sends out a sharp, musical sound
just when I feel it's gotten too quiet

I find myself

in colors, complementary
proud on the screen
flashing expertly in the heart of a scene

and I find myself

in the stories of people who are lost
who cannot find themselves
who jut out from their imposed pages
drenched, pouring the thick ink
that makes up the prose
of their pain and passion

so, I find myself

in silly, stealing, fleeting things
in things that time will wear, eat and tear
in pages, in notes, in shared thoughts and vibrant colors
but in each new finite, fictional summer
I find myself there
in its sugar-coated, sweetened care