Hindered by sober restlessness
Submitting to the amber crutch.
The theme in my aching prose.
Fantasizing the sight of Manhattan;
That pour of a bitter red being that escapes a thin frame. The rebirth of mutual love
The slipping on gloves to lay tenderly
"I'm dying."
- "Is it blissful?"
"It's like a dream."
- "I want to dream."