Up here. Always There.

Waking up from red persuasion, we have fallen dramatically like the curtain’s slumber.

Fearing erosion from Medusa's revision, saddened by the lobotomy of a river's crown.

There was, even in that time, a part of her that wished for the mirage of two tributaries.

Lack adds up. Wine cascades down into my sense of nearness to your litany. Which is better?

Up here we just the learn the patterns of the clouds. Moisture collecting at dawn across that horticulture you hopefully left behind.

Take this with you next time, even when your wish to disown entanglement warps the intestinal mirrors of Calcutta. 

Joyfully, aimlessly, endlessly, just because.

I don’t know what to do with you. Just the willows hope that you will grant their wish and stay.

Within your dance of dreamlike disintegration. Lucid before you give yourself up to our impersonations of your colorful contradiction.