Damp hair. Shoe laces and untangled strings. I come to work every morning caring less about how I appear to my audience - the edifice of dreams in a corporate cloud.
He is taken. His soul is taken away by another voice. Lyrics. Words. Libretto. Him in him. If I could do astral projection, I'd start with an analysis, not an overture.
What a clutter! Headphones, a Nescafe mug, sign pens and a concoction of thoughts with my Chucks on. Chucks bleached. Chucks faded.
You laugh. You grin. You smirk. You type. You listen to songs. You reminisce. You cry. You scream. You love. I watch you sleep in my imagination. I picture how your bed forms your body. How the night cuddles you is a vision to me. How you doze off the day's ennui - my relief. How you live with James' song - I envy.
I walk on the yellow lane as 18-wheelers halt to let me pass safely. I reach the gate where my death awaits me. I light up a stick out of my youth. I stare blankly at my shoes. Then you come in to me. Come to me.
I wait. And I do it patiently. I equal my waiting to my magnum opus: YOU. Finally. You. Me. Us.
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