Of what consolation is a lover,
who’s tender touch is hidden,
tucked behind mountains, 
and cloudy terraces, 
and loomy states of rectangular natures?

So square is the land, and the shortest
distance between two is no line,
a line divides,
expediency is in thoughts shared,
not cryptic, noisy words,
that seek to heal,
but only shield the heart. 

Of what inspiration is a love,
that cannot find itself,
that is so lost within it’s frustration,
and the speedy sarcasm with which it is delivered...
Oh I could find it within myself,
to be the punch line to your joke,
the egg fu-yung to your yoke,
the pillow to your sleep,
the softness to your sheets...

So square is life, not circular,
as some would claim, and
then defame the anger that,
inevitably follows the silence after,
a great few days, I can see the
smoke of the blaze,
as torrid would be’s burn,
away, in lazy summer days (for some),
and ashen memories are what remain,
a kiss or three, and fun.

Of what reparations are words,
With their slick textures,
like snakes they seize upon us as their prey,
and anyway, what did words EVER say,
that a good kiss couldn’t, that a 
cuddled hug wouldn’t, which 
words like cold showers would,
seek to repress, and I’ll tell it straight,
funny here in lyrical veracity,
you are where I want to be...

No I wouldn’t mind being, the
bite to your laugh, the orange
juice to your carafe,
the neverending to your story,
the newfoundedness to your prehistoric glory.