Want

my trouble is i don't want anymore. so i wait to be wanted. lost amongst the tall lies. a thick harvest of ironies cut with the dull blade of naivete. a perpendicular of art and circumstance teasing the child into some half-hearted confession of colors much brighter than her actual experience.

she draws in color and paints in black. filling in every line as she sees it.

empty.



One guess at a time circulating an answer in fallen leaves. That this dying could give me my life back. That living is only a byproduct of death.

Maybe then I could learn. How to want again. Or at least what makes one wanted. in the ugly lines that separate the colors of lover and friend.