fridayx.

A song of anticipation follows black leather footsteps
seconded by the pitter pattering of a fist-sized machine.

I am jailed in your memory,
these bars of sunlight and walls of scented smoke
and brown wood where picture frames of evening coffee stains
and cherry lip gloss rent spaces at the back of my head.

Eventually the present becomes a cage,
I, a restless bird fearing flight and longing instead
to return and rest in the warm embraces of your shell


I like this poem. It's sad but very nice.. full of symbolism.