lorne.

sitting alone in a dark vial of preference.
the clouds are stilted,
the dead leaves float down, fluttering like moths.
grey exceeds this smile.
she returns to her rightful place beneath the surface.
where catastrophes go to sleep.
where catalysts go to pray.
you're standing somewhere beside a sinking mirror.
and i cry out to steadfast,
i pour blood to its deities, so i could have you next to me.
but these sweaty palms are constantly letting go of everything it grows fond of.
i thought somewhere between last night and the year it is today, i could find you.
that maybe the name of the disease would bring understanding.
but who understands what a name means.
i look down and i know i'm loosing you.
before the roads even have a chance to move.
agoraphobic, pathologic.
isolation dwells in ovaries.
far from the lampoid.

/close./