markbousfield

Burdens pass brick by brick
to the floor in reddening dust,

expectations hook and
run amok
in the place of weak wills and hearts,

the re-recording of your voice patter
is not only flattery
but a matter of utmost sincerity
and inscrutable accuracy,

so too the pink you paint over your nails as we talk,
and the empty echo of cars passing by the window of the cafe,
lessening with time,

same with the coffee,

same with the sex.