Investing emotions when other operating levers exist,
loving without the privilege of parenthood is an essay
in emptiness. In some eyes I can see myself. I’m inured
to their throes. Come, let us camouflage grief in girdles
of guffaw. Let this be our memory.

You and I inhaled prescriptions scried by sources beyond
our breath. By then my sight was misted by the smoke
of your sticky tune. As with passive smokers we nip and
sometime nurse. An opisthograph on love is not enough:
lived lives have other needs.

Originally published at Synaesthesia.