I'm sitting outside
my cup of soup and me,
painting stars with whispers and breathing
life into dying spheres of light.
(They do not blink my name)

But then your face is twisted sour-
and awkward, like fragmented glass and
bits of salt.
I want to capture the permeating ink-song
and force it through my ears like seduction propaganda-
relentless.

And I swallow it down, my cup of soup
and pretend that a streak of a suicidal star hadn't smeared the sky
with the smell of death.

I sit out here,
my cup of soup and me
with December for a pout-blanket-
to pull my observations through, like birth.
To stretch the noise of an owl's "Whoooo" between
her legs- and force a mistake back to Hell.

But, I'm here, my cup of soup and me-
listening to the owl say how loving you is the same as resenting
you,
but the owl,
"Whoooo",
he does not call my name.