cricket echos of my memory
city speaks with foreign pleasantries
'bonjour mon ami.'
'you mean me?'
all in the greeting, the fleeting meaning- was it just a greeting?
one of a kind salutation gratuity
the lover's plea, a good morning/good day blessing
after reading
truly seeing the paint is peeling
happiness is what we think we need
though the 'is' is the real seed
the application of happy is first, to 'be'
the quest may seem hollow, at first a cavity
though i know vulnerability is the key
we are enough as ourselves you see
time needn't seem less revealing
only lifting negations off unknown possibility
the chance for change is the sweetest tea
i might be hiding
lying in this apartment writing
like a kite's flight etching shapes into the sky's blue siding
sliced deep purple cabbage, my stomach inspiring
a hodgepodge of carrots, potatoes, healthy colors perspiring
in the pot of boiling water colliding
Paris has decided to refrain from concentrated rain
falling is not on the menu du jour today
the clouds inhibit my play
though i prefer to stay inside and relay these phrases
from my mind's voice to the tips of my fingers tapping rapidly in places
gracious with freedom of cases
i am not even looking where my fingers land
my memory reserves the sensation of correct placement
like a clock could ever forget to tick and tock
with it's gears complacent grinding adjacent
sputtering with oil, my tongue is tired of thinking in my head
the bed is too comfy with it's red spread
my lethargy is inspiring deep thinking of what is left unwed
'the void of common thought whilst along a shared road is the missing link to existing whole'
that's what i said just now in my bed.
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