the ignorant lion of exile
hides and hunts.
at 5am,
everything seemed
to be made of dreams' lies.
one torso, mine,
under sheets,
nothing underneath.
grey days,
roads brimming with red,
open flowers, far.
eyes that
can only see
as long as you want them.
we meet
in pages, in stacks,
behind backs of begotten romance.
plan visions
around vertical blinds,
and ask the motes of dust.
this pitchfork is free,
for you,
but twice the price of yesterday.