Images of minds that sore before my eyes
Remind me of the orange in your carroty hair…
Did you ever have such,
Or is this an imagination;
   A   flowing   fantasy of forbidden words cascaded
Over your fatal   f    e    a    r . . . ?
I am tempted to roll this conversation away
Because I too, am afraid
Of the intended monotony that it’s become.

Sometimes, I see myself kneeling before an effigy
Of your face,
Your hair, f l o a t i n g   i n   t h e   a i r . . .
Smelt like roses in a graveyard.

Swimming in lines of doubt,
I became androgynous, no longer knowing
    What is right, what I need, what  You want,
                 For I have lost myself
  In your playful touch,
          Painful,
                                                                    Like paper cuts.

I beg for your soul to wake up
And face that
YOU   ARE   NOT   ALONE.