The Couch
Spread out like a Rembrandt, Over cracked and yellowed walls, Blessing the couch with the scent of your hair, I wildly crane my head to make sure you're still there. This strange feeling stalks the back of my mind, Like a noose, slowly tightening around my neck, Slowly raising, A little tighter, Kind of scared, Like when you get that thing you've always wanted, So you wake up early to make sure That it hasn't been seduced by the wiles of a west-bound moon, And left by the sun to weep. This is different Because I play not upon the distorted frames of fancy, But on these temporal walls of steel. I still can't help but look, not quite willing to believe that you're real. Waiting for you to disappear in your magic cloud of mist, And leave the sighing sofa in phantom's arms again. Written January 4th, 2002 © on Jan 04 2002 01:58 AM PST 10 • 0
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"Spread out like a Rembrandt,..."