five years and some
to the next month, faint dreams of vivid blooms
cerus, queens, anyone or thing at this point
anywhere. still a longing, increasingly distant or make believe.
in one hour, hope for what’s ahead but, a snap is cold. a headline, a heartache that churns
i’ll call it a stress migraine. better by morning, same sort of day
what’s left of this youth is receding into fine creases beneath my chin. the calendar, cyclical in the hate and loathing churned