young hearts lust for what they cannot find:
surety, security.
it cannot be
the abstract doesn't translate
into reality.
why can't we fall in love at the same rate?
instead my loneliness gives way to heartache.
i can't keep it up, the excruciating pace.
unearthing buried children,
loping through lost corridors,
passing by many half-ajar doors.
there's some marmalade in one.
and look, this one's got some fish...
and this one here, it's got a wish in it.
and uh oh...
there it sits...
the room with the door hanging on one hinge....
now what the hell could've got loose from there?
and the question of the our/hour:
where'd it/we get off to?