roses are not red but deep purple, soft velvet black and midnight blue. in my garden. butterflies with white headscarves flutter about not ready to reveal their true colours. yet.
I saw you in a dream my little big cat. why did your paws drop off until you were left standing with one hind leg only, staring silently at me with sad ginger eyes?
once. it was not a dream. we walked along the shore on a dark night. I said: listen to the melodies in the waves breaking along the shore. water bubbling up between uncalloused toes. but you heard nothing. at least not before. but now I hear your daughter is an artist. so you were not made of ice after all. or perhaps you married a poet.
I slip constantly. you break into my thoughts. pick me up. set me on a wooden chair. settle me into a plush lounger. and sometimes you smile and ask me to dance. Jewaira. dance.
dipping into honey glazed nights and spreading three fingers into the air. regressing into portraits of us together framed in intricate blocks of time. suspended in something that resembles eternity but as ethereal when sought.
wrinkles in time wedge me into moments when only your values exist. when the moment reigns supreme. reactions are one hundred percent proof. the hangover is lethargy. your logic too lethal to sustain me. and I slip back.
sunbeams in the morning. pave a glittery path into the sky. there I will roll, roll, roll away.
