Always the desire to be prolific.
Attic strife and sea salt in the eyes.
Here is nothing. Here is also nothing.

But, the ink bears pauses between
the spaces without punctuation
even, a full stop of hope hides here

like a ghost of itself, a Polaroid
of a ghost of itself, and so on.
We means nothing. Even on the mic.

We lands on the moon with hope,
a pair of lunar phantoms
leaving footprints in the skycheese.

Heartbreak is like two bottles of wine.
The one has a delicate robe and distinct nose,
the other is left lonelier than an orphan.

It hurts when we translate,
reimagining the old architecture
of a lost novel.

Much better to string up anything
in reach: greeting cards, garlands,
lamps. To look at, visual apéritif.

These daytime sounds inspire nightmares
on my déjà vu grocery list, as I jot down
-might -exploit -history -picture.