Winter is half-way across the sea.
There are butterflies on every bough. Each day, they unfold another water-colored wing. Crap. Those are leaves and this is pretentious spring.
The scent of hope between our lips. I want to ask if this was your idea of fun. I stay shut. Ask me why when fraternizing exhausts you. Days blow like cotton candy. This diaspora of virtues. I could shoot you point blank. Tell me you care.
Stain my mouth with yet another sulphur-lie. Teach me shades of pink.
But first, come here. Spell singularity.
Because if this that we drew is a map, then you darling, are an insincere home and I am just another name in your book of names. Nothing less.