The eiderdown smells of your cologne.

Cradling my spent skull and spine.

Sixth storey cirrus clouds- feathery

Pillows, cushions-bleached candyfloss.

Far, farther, further down the squiggly roads and swirling

Turquoise oceans-

On the maps, in the atlas-

Wanting, waiting, wishing on comets

And shooting stars- dreaming unrealistically.