the promise of my arms around your neck greets us just as a draped lei.it is replaced with the way you say good morning, how it just rolls off your tongue.
and waits in the corner of our dark house,
to steal my thoughts.
it maps the constellation of scars and blemishes on your shins.
and invades the air, that was once so soft.
i should most likely be on my way out,
the flowers are dead,
it's night time, and the air is soft again.
