fragile,
as if the marrow of my sordid, hardened bones turned against me.
intangible,
like the leaden touch of so many empty and aimless hands.
ineffable,
like millions of crimson texts running from cuts to careless lips.
miserable,
like a river of laughter echoing through catwalks and golden arches.
tell me, muse,
how long will it be before the second becomes uncountable?
tell me, muse,
how many steps will we take before the path proves to be findable?
tell me, muse.
tell me on which shelf should I look for the meaning I never kept as mine?
tell me, please,
in how many smiles and caresses and clenched fists must I seek the love that no one has ever promised me?
