Humid in heart,
every damn day I chase the shade.
The swan's far look
is disturbing me.
And the whale room
has my writing becoming wet.
Honesty is a commodity
this Mr. Months of June.
Yet two months ago,
my lungs realized this type of future furniture.
And you can come back
when we mourn the date of the day.
I'd offer you my hand,
but it will hurt too much.