Birthday: Oh eight, Oh one.
Meet me in the library, reading Keats in transparent terms,
Scratching off-white wounds in a trashy love story.

And build me a castle of literature,
For the words to cascade beautifully, splashing, reflective,
Somewhere between the black of my eyes,
And the white of my tongue,

I absorb. I discover
Shades of grey, I feel nostalgic
In my raindrop future: I fall, waterfall, watching the
Centimetre rainbow dreams. I wonder.

Am I blue, or red?

A fractured fingerprint, on the broken spine.
I judge you as I stab numbers on a plastic frame
As I listen to the clatter of a phone ring, shattering silence.
As he responds - not the big man. The biggest, but the one
Below him.
As you flutter across the floor, a weakly pulsating shadow.

And distant.

Oh eight, oh two.
I am back between pages, a sketch in grey, slipping back and fourth
Between snow and charcoal.

Meet me in the library, I am the last romantic poet.