"Au revoir" is a bouquet outlined with two beads of sweat and one bland color of polaroids; a whisper that issues two meanings of "hello and goodbye" and one dry spell.

Maybe memories can lumber me back to see our trees as objects and not mere shadows of a happenstance. (Perhaps I will stumble upon the Godot you waited so long for!)

A story of a moment is sometimes worth more than the moment itself, you said; and I would condemn how sartorial splendor occasionally attempts to outshine the dull but heavy virtue of words.

Remembrance is a fashioned soul that I now house; it swims in the lapping waves, craning its neck to punctuate serpentine ripples in an otherwise dead sea.

A flagrant misunderstanding of love is romantic: assuming that a fortress of unknowability can launch into a precise explanation is like numbering flowers!

Never was I the nexus nor the hub of a functioning wheel that eyed a far elsewhere.

Truth bears the cumbersome responsibility of waking drunken men whose wrinkles have replaced sanity. (Are they ordained to be betrayed by their vaunted memories?)

Havens of tranquility across a fuchsia sky were where you aimed; yet I was the dockside reeds, my heart hanging on the pier. Let me rename longevity and call it another ray of light, seen but not owned by me, you, nor us.