Where has my passion gone? Has it been carried off by some lonely driver in a line of florescent light? Has it been blurred together in ribboned patterns on the night?

Along the stretch of some unnamed plane, we began again. I saw in your face that we're the same when we began again.

A multiverse of fuchsia and violet surrenders to blackness now. My world closes its eyes to sex and laughter.

Tricked into some fodder about this oasis.

This conversation of new beginning.

Having enlightening talks over common interests. Chained together (forever) to push onto the celebrated platform.

I've boarded myself inside. I've refused to exit.

There is no ocean for me. There is no glamour. Only the mirage of water ascending from the asphalt. I gaze at it from the oven of my home.

Confined to a house that never remains clean.

To a bed where the ill never get well.

I cough ceaselessly into the night.

The remainder of my humanity is drifting spit through the cold.

Sitting quietly in scorching reimagined suburbia.

I woke in a sweat from a desirous fever in the pocket of yesteryear where faults have fallen to some. I begged not to carry the corpse. To not be a queer fish in unforgiving hearts.

To not be buried in native clay and preserved for cynicism.

I wish to be a pauper in kind eyes. To feel the gravel beneath my knees. To wake in a home.

God had sent my calamity into a deep space from which not even in dreams, could I ever imagine my escape.

Scrawled into the pavement, again and again. Written on the red stalls in smokey tin.

On the smokey tin, it melts again and again.

On the booths of the round table, again and again.

Drug onto the street and onto the soaking steps, again and again.

Endless debris sifting through static lungs, lingering into every pore

Laced with a bitter face near the dawning of the high and madness of the undertow

We audience who saved our roses. We audience who scoffed at the tears. Ugliness stretching toward the chandelier. Pale with pain

I imagined the overcome and fell to my knees before the endless truth of instability and futility.

Now I know.

I imagine the gracious, benevolent ritual of Death. Grave and porcelain, with baby blue lips and pale pink eyes, descending toward me. Her glowing hands cradled at my head and knees submerging me into waves of icy seas.

I imagine the end.

Then further downward so that I can rest, cocooned by the heat of the ocean floor. In the dark, my flesh to disintegrate into consumption for the earth.