Where am I to be,
when the day has gone, and the sun has set?
In the draining apathy for which I have become known,
or in the slumbering lascivity I wish to own?
Who am I to be,
when the doors have closed, and the lights dimmed?
A terse, underwhelming giant, awaiting his giantess,
or a filling busker, who would hold, and caress.
And for lovely you are awaiting me there;
light blue, framed by shimmering crimson,
as the sun dips into God's lap, which contains us.