Sillage

When will the next star fails?

You ask me to ask for you

Some of it is prewritten

On a deck of fragrant bones

Filigreed filler of negative space

Just want to be you on a perfumed Saturday

Trapped in a scarf of fine reprinted arts

While my coffee whispers your name

Those are attractive times

Lacquered sign language

Cities made of plums

Under the lilac shades

Too much excuses of making excuses

Threadbare is vintage silver and gold

Wrapped with languid due diligence

In nocturne we slept a duet into being

See you in Scarborough Fair

Sometimes between space

The glass went dim suddenly

The shards are alright

2021.04.

By Aran Meredith