We are all trapped by the curve of our signatures.
Our histories are somewhat similar,
even though the names and locations we come from differ…
We are almost the same, but we are not the same.
We are carved in complementary shapes,
my skin on your skin, your skin on my skin,
even when reality blows forth an autumn chill,
and we are nothing more than friends,
Summer dreaming is as heavy as whipped cream,
our pseudo-children are golden and green,
but you don’t feel the same,
you don’t share the same dream,
I let the sleeping kids lie.
I lie to myself,
making lions out of tabbies,
words are the only currency
I can afford,
music the only God I pray to.
Could I will you to
cross the border towards my side?
The girls are waiting to lay down,
sinking with the sun on the greens.