In tossed-up dreams, like a whirlpool cascading up a sunlit storm, memories stored in a dusty calm and from when the witching hour fades, you appear still the handsome, washed-up king from nowhere, just now tired, jaded and a sight in the darkness, asking for a kiss, that I cannot give lest you leave and I miss you in the tune that you bring for me in which to sing.
Your beauty...prying, silent and unseen to the waking eye arches my sleepy sigh like a melodramatic spy... gushing pain, surprise and all things nice to prize open a rushed sweet bleed. I am torn between loving or leaving, measuring or tearing where possibilities abound like a comet poised for a dip on the majestic tip of a loud brash crash somewhere in my lovelorn stash.
