Two, of course there are two.
It seems perfectly natural now -
The one who never has the blues,
Her steps make the soil more
colorful, like Persephone.
She exhibits
The folders -
Bittersweet memories.
I'm a rain of glass shards.
Her umbrella
Cuts me off. I am not ready yet.
She tells me how well I paint.
She tells me how sweet
The ill are in their
hospital rooms,
complex collection of
neurons. They row on
Lethe's marsh.
Unsure, exhausted.
Maybe they fall into it.
The other does that.
Her humor is alienating, rotten.
Bastard
Masturbating a glitter
She wants to be loved.
I do not stir.
The chalk drawing slips away,
The frost makes a flower,
Rebirth.
The dead bell.
Eternal nausea.