My monsters come,
they run, to me.
They come, regardless
of me.
In those dreams, of
which I've spoken,
you can sense them
running.
Bright does it come,
the camera that
flashes, leaving
the afterimage.
In the darkness
that's left, my
mother holds onto
me, always.
You talk. The words
come from you, but
not in you. We're
dancing.
Our emotions lay
aside while the
season changes,
while our hearts
yearn.
Along these lines
we think - we worry
about things never
before apparent.
In subtle colors
we draw ourselves
exposed, until we
run undone.
In that end, and
only then, we
know each other -
flawed with love.
