the moisture from my tears evaporate
an incrustation of salts on the lens.
maybe that is the reason why
the dull blues suddenly turned
the low viscosity beeswax cake
falls off my lips
leaving them bare
for the nightshade's kiss.
and i go further
out of your reach.
my absence has done to you,
what satire does to a peach.
the collection of extra-virgin women
dipped in rancid olive oil
and their dresses
billowing out behind them
turns your rigid orientation, meek;
the jackass in a jacuzzi
jerking off to sleep.
a good day smells like a crayon
and a good riddance
smells like a box full of them.
you put birdlime under my shoes
but i've got the skills to run barefoot
in the game.
found myself smiling again
after a decade of nothing but pain;
licking lemon popsicles under the sun
as the brunt of freedom
and the thrill of 2020 grows on me.