Apples to Abstract

Dearly departing dreams,


I used to laugh at letters to no one,
like ticklish carbonation
on a hot summer afternoon,

it changed, when you became
privvy to my ways, shapes, and forms,
shifting my subconscious
like sliding tiles in a puzzle.

I asked for answers once,
and you offered me smoke signals,
which clung fast to my shirt
like cheap, yet fragrant cologne.

The coyotes were our only voices,
and this warehouse was built
to house our every single dance,
as well as every fool’s translation.

It’s all apples to abstract art,
archived from “A” to question mark,
somewhere in the clutter
is a booth reserved for two.

I’ll be waiting there,
on the road to F’fron Avenu,
past the chartreuse Boulevard,



Your dreamer.