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This virgin solitude
Like being deserted in
A crowd, suddenly
Their arms rip and crease
The space
Like gnarled trees -
Limbs reaching until I cower away.
-
The blinds prism light
Making our room a postcard
Or bleeding it 
Like a painting left in the rain
Whispering or shouting
It is all futile to wake  you -
I am dwelling in the shadow
Of the perfection I was in your dreams.
-
Facial expressions of objects
Or posters on the wall -
The look of deadly sin
While a shoulder to cry on
That you will never see
Because you shine too much
For me to wake.

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