is hearing your drums when I play my guitar.
It’s picturing curls as I drive in my car.
It’s grasping for air.
It’s batting the wind.
is sweetly fictitious for truth is a bummer;
as actual as Olaf in the dead of summer.
It is fleeting.
It is mock.
is fantastic and simple, excruciating and sore.
It’s wishing all remained as it had been before.
is being a river reluctant to flow;
getting uninvited and still wanting to go.
It is unfitting and yet somehow fair.
Like being hung… by a nun.
By tuttysan © 2015