my adoration might have
vanished into
the pillow-razored sand dunes
and it drips
through the unfilled spaces between my ribs
your wail doused dustings soak up the haze of
scents of rose and pure lacking
that lie across our barren harvest
sometimes i wonder if i believe in ghosts but
my vinyl vision veils all things pink and naive
so i assumed i needed your sugar glass to soften the blow
since your hitching breath did nothing but exhaust the
treasured stone
into gravel
