I often wonder if their thoughts race as fast as mine
a racehorse, sprinting not for glory
for his life
for something far worse
lingers behind him
I often wonder if they strung themselves up from the rafters
peering down at themselves
omnipresent in a sense
do they cry when I cry
do they paint extravagant scenes with their heads
only to watch them play out in an almost jokingly slow motion
do they stare into the eyes of their next
sweet nothings slipping things past their shoulders
till hands are around your neck
and you've whispered "I told you so"
I'm afraid I hate asking questions, but I must ask one I'm most afraid of
how long will it take this time?

honey glazed toast, and hot coffee with a drop of cream
cinnamon and sugar spilled across mahogany
untamed thunderheads rolling across a once pale pink sky
and beyond the garden gates
I often wonder if that's where it is
one more hue, to paint the entirety of you