If only I could move without pattern through form;
but I may not
as neither time nor place will reconcile.
And as with our noticed glances in peripheral
and smiles which almost became,
we are but a point in time in the deviation of beauty.
How many hearts have been poured out
over the last sip of a drink?
And is this really a case of lived poetry
in present souls
through slurred and vacant speech?
One is there in itself and many,
but is angst-ridden life from above;
so if not present, I am not loved
As I am
quietly awaiting my place and time
over the last sip of a drink
with our noticed glances in peripheral
and smiles which almost became.