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