rich crimson boxes
mahogany, cherry fragilely
stacked, I reach deep to find your song
the deep acoustic vibration of your smell
telling me you are real, the bass of your chest
thumping rhythmically, it tells me you will
be here beyond the thinly ticking clock.
But sound is fragile, it conveys its purpose
and is gone, and your pictures,
your recordings are imperfect, lossy
as I see us embracing at christmas,
smile plastered, photo; overexposed,
yet now you are missing from your carcass,
as present as your smile
when you found out my lies.
So I fall away from your shadow self
changing the topic to the weather,
when will it stop raining?
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